THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


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THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

THE  MARVELOUS  BOY 

THE  STORY  OF 
A  STRANGE  LIFE 
1752-1770 

BY 

CHARLES   EDWARD   RUSSELL 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,   YARD    &  COMPANY 
1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD    &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  March,  igo8 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  USA. 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 

With  Shakespeare's  manhood  at  a  boy's  wild  heart,  — 
Through  Hamlet's  doubt  to  Shakespeare  near  allied 
And  kin  to  Milton  through  his  Satan's  pride,  — 

At  Death's  sole  door  he  stooped,  and  craved  a  dart; 

And  to  the  dear  new  bower  of  England's  art,  — 
Even  to  that  shrine  Time  else  had  deified, 
The  unuttered  heart  that  soared  against  his  side, 

Drove  the  fell  point,  and  smote  life's  seals  apart. 

Thy  nested  home-loves,  noble  Chatterton, 
The  angel-trodden  stair  thy  soul  could  trace 
Up  Redcliffe's  spire;  and  in  the  world's  armed  space 

Thy  gallant  sword-play:  —  these  to  many  an  one 

Are  sweet  forever;  as  thy  grave  unknown 
And  love-dream  of  thine  unrecorded  face. 

—  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI,  "Five  English  Poets. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

MOB 

AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS i 

CHAPTER  II 
DREAMS  AND  REALITIES 13 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS 4-Q 

CHAPTER  IV 
THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER        61 

CHAPTER  V 
THE  RISING  FLAME       "7 

CHAPTER  VI 
Now  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART 19° 

CHAPTER  VII 
THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT 225 


vin  CONTENTS 

APPENDIX  I 

PAGE 

HISTORIE  OF  PEYNCTERS  YN  ENGLANDE 269 

APPENDIX  II 
WILLIAM  CANYNGE 274 

APPENDIX  III 
CANYNGE  AND  ROWLEY 277 

APPENDIX  IV 
THE  ROWLEY  CONTROVERSY 282 

INDEX 287 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Chatterton Frontispiece 

(From  the  painting  of  Henry  Wallis,  RW.S.,  National  Gallery  of 
British  Art.) 

The  Famous  North  Porch  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe    ...         6 
Colston's  School,  as  it  was  in  Chatterton's  Time    ...        30 

(From  an  old  water-color  in  the  Bristol  Museum.) 

The  Bristol  Bridge,  that  was  built  in  Chatterton's  Time   .        64 

(From  an  old  water-color  in  the  Bristol  Museum.) 

The  Supposed  Portrait  of  Chatterton 94 

(From  a  Photograph  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Edward  Bell) 

Two  Specimens  of  Chatterton's  Work 106 

1.  Photographic  copy  of  the  parchment,  purporting  to  be  the  original 

of  a  poem  by  Rowley. 

2.  The  Arms  of  Canynge  as  designed  by  Chatterton. 

The  House  where  Chatterton  Died,  No.  39  Brooke  Street, 

London 222 

(From  an  old  print  in  the  possession  of  the  Bristol  Museum.) 

St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  from  the  North 258 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Born  at  Bristol    November  20,  1752 

Admitted  to  Colston's  Charity  School  ....  August,  1760 
Wrote  his  first  extant  poem  when  ten  years 

old December,  1 762 

Published  it  ("On  the  Last  Epiphany")  .  January  8,  1763 
Published  "The  Church-Warden  and  the 

Apparition" January  7,  1764 

Left  Colston's,  apprenticed  to  Lawyer  Lam- 
bert      July  I,  1767 

Published  the  account  of  the  opening  of 

the  Old  Bridge    September,  1768 

Completed  "Aella,  a  Tragycal  Enterlude" 

before    December,  1768 

Correspondence  with  Horace  Walpole  ....  March  to  July,  1769 
Completed  his  satirical  poem  "Kew  Gar- 
dens" about March,  1769 

Had  his  Indenture  cancelled April  16,  1770 

Started  for  London April  23,  1770 

His  friend,  Lord  Mayor  Beckford,  died  . . .  June  19,  1770 

Completed  his  "Balade  of  Charitie" Juty>  177° 

Killed  himself  in  Brooke  Street,  London  .  August  24,  1770 

AMONG  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES  WERE: 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 1709-1784 

James  Boswell 1740-1795 

Edward  Young   1681-1765 


xii         CHRONOLOGY  OF  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Thomas  Gray    1716-1771 

William  Collins 1720-1756 

Mark  Akenside   1721-1770 

Oliver  Goldsmith    1728-1774 

Bishop  Percy 1728-1811 

William  Cowper    1731-1800 

Charles  Churchill    1731-1764 

George  Crabbe    1754-1832 

William  Shenstone    1714-1763 

William  Mason    1724-1797 

"Ossian"  Macpherson    1738-1796 

Hannah  More   I745~l%33 

Joseph  Warton    1722-1800 

David  Garrick 1717-1779 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan    1751-1816 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 1723-1792 

Thomas  Gainsborough 1727-1788 

The  Elder  Pitt 1708-1778 

Horace  Walpole 1717-1797 

Lawrence  Sterne 1713-1768 

Tobias  George  Smollett 1721-1771 

Samuel  Richardson 1689-1761 

William  Blackstone .'.  .1723-1780 

William  Herschel 1738-1822 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

I  HAVE  tried  in  these  pages  to  set  forth  the  plain 
records  of  this  extraordinary  story  with  hope  to 
do  something,  however  little,  however  poor  and  in- 
adequate, to  clear  from  calumny  and  undeserved 
reproach  the  memory  of  one  of  the  greatest  minds 
and  sweetest  souls  that  ever  dwelt  upon  this  earth. 

That  in  the  short  span  of  his  unhappy  life  this 
boy  should  have  produced  works  of  the  first  order 
of  genius,  works  ever  since  the  marvel  of  all  persons 
that  have  considered  them,  works  profoundly  affect- 
ing the  body  and  the  development  of  English  poetry, 
is  the  most  amazing  fact  in  literature.  Next  to  it 
in  wonder  I  place  the  fact  that  this  great  spirit,  this 
artist  and  poet,  this  lover  and  benefactor  of  his  kind, 
this  assailant  of  absolutism,  this  boy  hero  of  revolt, 
this  leader  at  seventeen  in  the  army  of  man,  has 
been  kept  by  false  report  and  malignant  slander 
from  his  true  place  in  the  affections  of  the  race  he 
labored  for.  And  next  to  this  I  place  the  fact, 
herein,  I  think,  for  the  first  time  made  clear,  that  all 
of  these  false  reports  and  all  of  these  slanders  had 
no  other  origin  than  the  petty  malice  of  a  spiteful 


xiv  PREFATORY  NOTE 

and  vindictive  old  man.  For  I  deem  it  impossible 
to  come  from  any  impartial  and  first-hand  investi- 
gation of  these  matters  without  the  conviction  that 
Thomas  Chatterton  would  never  have  been  called 
a  Literary  Forger,  would  never  have  been  a  moral 
warning  to  the  young  nor  an  outcast  among  the  men 
of  letters,  if  he  had  not  offended  Horace  Walpole, 
Earl  of  Orford. 

With  what  monstrous  injustice  he  has  been 
branded  with  that  word  Forger,  how  unreasonably 
he  has  been  assailed,  how  far  his  actual  life,  full  of 
love,  tenderness,  and  good  deeds,  was  above  the 
libels  that  have  been  cast  upon  it,  I  have  labored 
here  to  make  plain.  For  the  first  time  the  state- 
ments derogatory  to  Chatterton's  character  have 
been  traced  from  hand  to  hand  back  to  the  one 
fountain  head,  identical  in  each  instance;  and  for 
the  first  time  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  compare 
the  accepted  narrative  with  the  available  records. 
It  may  ease  others  as  I  was  eased  to  know  that  the 
wonderful  boy,  whose  days  were  so  unutterably  sad 
and  lonely  and  whose  heart  was  so  infallibly  kind, 
was  not  a  libertine,  was  not  dissolute,  was  not  venal, 
and  was  not  a  Literary  Forger.  And  it  may  instruct 
others  as  I  was  profoundly  instructed  to  know  that 
in  the  remarkable  vitality  of  these  monstrous  false- 
hoods he  has  paid  the  penalty  for  attacking  privilege 
and  championing  the  cause  of  mankind.  For  in  more 


PREFATORY  NOTE  XV 

ways  than  one  this  boy  has  been  a  martyr  of  democ- 
racy, and  no  one  may  doubt  that  if  he  had  fought  for 
absolutism  as  fiercely  as  he  attacked  it,  there  would 
now  be  no  need  to  defend  his  reputation. 

It  is  time  to  have  done  with  the  prejudice  and 
bigotry  that  have  obscured  this  glorious  name.  The 
world  crushed  out  the  life  of  Thomas  Chatterton 
when  he  was  still  a  boy.  That  ought  to  be  enough. 
With  cudgel  and  savage  injustice  and  cruelty  and 
privation  it  embittered  almost  every  moment  of  his 
existence.  That  ought  to  be  enough.  For  more 
than  one  hundred  years  it  has  dwelt  with  moral 
edification  upon  his  poor  little  errors.  That  ought 
to  be  enough.  Possibly  now  is  more  profit  to 
be  had  from  considering  his  magnificent  art,  the 
products  of  his  unequaled  genius  and  the  natural 
goodness  of  his  heart.  To  try  in  some  way  to  further 
such  consideration  was  the  object  of  this  book. 

Some  obstacle  to  a  wide  reading  of  Chatterton  has 
been  found  in  the  strange  and  antique  garb  of  the 
Rowley  poems.  An  attempt  is  made  here  to  show 
how  slight  is  this  obstacle  by  printing  examples  of  the 
poems  in  their  original  and  others  in  a  modernized 
form.  There  will  also  be  found  analyses  of 
musical  themes  employed  by  Chatterton  that  may 
seem  to  exhibit  more  clearly  the  unusual  nature  of 
his  endowment  and  the  essential  beauty  of  his  work. 

The  materials  here  used  have  been  drawn  chiefly 


xvi  PREFATORY  NOTE 

from  the  invaluable  collection  of  books,  documents, 
and  letters  referring  to  Chatterton,  now  preserved 
in  the  Bristol  Museum  and  Library.  The  discovery 
that  Barrett  knew  of  and  aided  the  attempted  im- 
posture upon  Walpole  Mr.  Edward  Bell  had  briefly 
noted  among  the  documents  in  the  British  Museum, 
and  further  investigation,  following  this  vital  fact, 
seemed  to  show  the  whole  of  Barrett's  conduct  in 
a  light  that  leaves  small  room  to  blame  the  boy 
and  much  to  doubt  the  man.  Of  the  extant 
biographies  I  have  found  that  of  Professor  Wil- 
son and  the  short  life  written  by  Mr.  Bell  (and 
used  as  a  preface  to  Skeat's  edition  of  Chatter- 
ton's  poems),  to  be  the  most  accurate  as  they  are 
also  the  most  interesting  and  sympathetic.  The 
other  lives,  being  made  up  chiefly  from  the 
errors  of  Dix  and  Chalmers,  are  not  available  for 
the  purposes  of  the  modern  biographer.  I  have 
been  at  pains  to  verify,  so  far  as  possible,  from  the 
original  sources,  all  the  statements  made  here  con- 
cerning Chatterton's  career;  and  whether  the  result 
be  ill  or  good,  at  least  this  is  true,  that  nothing  has 
been  taken  for  granted  nor  accepted  on  light  evi- 
dence. 

I  should  be  much  to  blame  if  I  omitted  from  this 
note  an  expression  of  my  gratitude  to  the  good  city 
of  Bristol  that,  with  a  universal  and  genuine  kind- 
ness, so  long  and  so  often  harbored  me  and  fur- 


PREFATORY  NOTE  xvii 

thered  in  every  way  my  design.  Surely  the  stranger's 
path  could  not  have  been  made  pleasanter  for  him. 
To  many  of  the  citizens  of  Bristol  and  many  persons 
elsewhere  I  am  under  enduring  obligations:  to  Mr. 
Alderman  Barker,  J.  P.,  of  Bristol,  for  his  active 
assistance  in  securing  from  the  municipal  govern- 
ment permission  to  examine  and  photograph  the 
Chatterton  relics  that  are  now  part  of  the  city's  treas- 
ures; to  Mr.  L.  Acklan  Taylor,  of  the  Bristol  Library, 
for  unwearied  efforts  in  my  behalf;  to  Mr.  Jackson, 
headmaster  of  the  St.  Elizabeth's  Hospital  school, 
to  the  vicar  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  to  Mr.  Mayhew, 
of  the  British  Museum,  for  generous  assistance;  to 
the  authorities  of  the  British  Museum  for  permission 
to  examine  and  photograph  the  Chatterton  relics 
there,  and  lastly  to  the  Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford. 

Fourteen  years  have  passed  since  this  inquiry 
began.  If  now  it  bear  fruit  in  a  word  or  a  sugges- 
tion that  may  help  any  one  to  a  better  acquaintance 
with  a  mind  in  whose  companionship  I  have  found 
great  and  always  increasing  pleasure,  I  shall  be  glad. 

C.  E.  R. 

New  York,  November  I, 


THOMAS   CHATTERTON 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS 

THE  time  was  the  time  of  the  Roses,  Red  and 
White;  the  England  was  the  England  of  Henry 
VI  and  Edward  IV,  torn  with  long  dissensions,  and  at 
last  with  civil  war.  In  all  such  eras  are  a  few  minds 
that  the  prevailing  atmosphere  of  unrest  seems  to 
make  nimble  to  nobler  exercises  than  the  trade  of 
blows.  One  such  mind  that  then  illumined  and 
enlivened  the  ancient  busy  seaport  of  Bristol  was 
destined  after  centuries  (so  strangely  come  about 
the  threads  of  life),  profoundly  to  affect  men,  man- 
ners, and  arts  whereof  its  own  day  had  no  dream. 

Bristol  has  ever  had  pride  in  her  commerce  and 
in  her  churches,  both  remarkable,  and  to  both  this 
man  notably  contributed.  He  was  a  great  merchant, 
a  tower  of  commercial  strength,  the  legitimate  fore- 
runner of  modern  mercantile  princes  and  potentates, 
by  name  William  Canynge.  His  ships  sailed  all  seas 
known  of  his  age;  they  brought  home  rare  products 
from  strange  far-away  regions,  like  Spain  and 
Portugal,  and  even,  by  connection  with  Genoa  and 
Venice,  from  the  mystical  East.  He  was  of  a  family 


2  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  merchants.  His  grandfather,  whose  name  and  vir- 
tues he  repeated,  had  founded  the  house  and  carried 
it  to  fame  and  success,  and  thrice  had  been  mayor  of 
Bristol;  his  father,  though  less  distinguished,  had 
managed  to  steer  the  family  fortunes  through  the 
seas  of  troublous  times,  and  now  the  younger  William 
far  outdid  their  achievements.  He  built  ship  after 
ship,  he  grew  in  wealth  and  power,  he  was  five  times 
chosen  mayor,  his  fame  as  the  richest  and  most  en- 
terprising merchant  in  the  west  spread  far  abroad, 
he  was  known  at  court  and,  for  all  the  royal  tempta- 
tion (in  those  days  of  rapine)  to  plunder  a  man  of 
such  reputed  wealth,  he  long  escaped  unfavorable 
attention. 

He  was  likewise  of  an  intellectual  habit  and  of 
taste  in  the  arts;  he  knew  and  loved  good  architec- 
ture, he  loved  learning  and  had  for  his  times  an 
unusual  share  of  it.  His  ships  might  go  armed  and 
his  captains  might  pursue  methods  that  in  later  and 
more  orderly  times  would  insure  their  hanging;  for 
himself,  his  ways  were  ways  of  pleasantness.  With- 
out the  city,  in  a  fine  terraced  garden  by  a  branch  of 
the  Avon,  he  built  a  house,  spacious  for  those  days, 
a  part  of  which  still  standing  attests  eloquently  the 
excellent  art  of  its  builder.  This  Red  Lodge  had  a 
great  hall  wherein  was  a  magnificent  broad  stair- 
case, elegantly  carved  and  adorned,  a  balcony,  justly 
planned,  and  a  generous  fireplace.  The  beam  ends 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS         3 

were  cut  after  a  chaste  design,  the  ceiling  was  im- 
posing; all  the  house,  so  far  as  the  remains  testify, 
spoke  of  sound  and  discriminating  judgment  and  an 
indomitable  sense  of  esthetic  propriety. 

He  was,  in  truth,  an  extraordinary  person,  this 
Canynge.  The  chief  line  of  trade  of  his  paternal 
house  was  the  woolen  staple.  William  so  extended 
and  furthered  it  that  he  became  in  it  an  international 
figure,  and  treaties  were  made  about  him  and  his  do- 
ings. He  had  a  natural  inclining  towards  politics,  not 
less  than  towards  learning.  Almost  with  manhood  he 
began  to  take  active  part  in  public  affairs.  First  he 
was  chosen  bailiff,  then  sheriff,  then  mayor,  and  finally 
his  admiring  townsmen  sent  him  to  Parliament.  His 
practise  was  ever  towards  a  prominent  part  in  what- 
ever chanced  to  be  the  current  event;  in  Parliament 
he  had  a  hand  in  the  attainder  of  Jack  Cade,  after 
that  fustian  rebel's  career  had  made  an  end;  and 
when  it  dawned  upon  the  intellect  of  his  day  that  if 
the  common  people  had  revolted  they  must  have 
had  something  to  revolt  about,  he  helped  to  investi- 
gate that  surpassing  strange  mystery.  The  investi- 
gation led  him  upon  delicate  ground.  He  was  a 
zealous  advocate  and  personal  friend  of  King  Henry 
VI,  and  much  of  the  blame  for  the  popular  discon- 
tent was  found  (or  imagined)  to  rest  upon  King 
Henry's  strenuous  consort,  Queen  Margaret;  a  situa- 
tion that  might  have  puzzled  any  statesman.  But 


4  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  Canynge  mind  was  ever  in  emergency  resourceful. 
The  merchant  found  a  way  to  do  his  duty  by  the 
nation  without  straining  his  friendship  for  the  King, 
who  testified  to  his  appreciation  of  so  intelligent  a 
subject  by  securing  special  concessions  from  Den- 
mark for  the  Canynge  woolen  trade. 

Parliament  dissolved,  Canynge  returned  to  Bris- 
tol and  was  promptly  re-elected  mayor.  He  must 
have  been  a  most  generous  soul  as  well  as  a  canny  and 
a  popular.  Perdurable  tradition  has  connected  his 
name  with  more  benevolent  enterprises  than  any  one 
man  of  his  times  could  possibly  have  sustained,  a  cer- 
tain if  somewhat  awkward  testimony  to  the  esteem 
of  his  compatriots;  but  one  of  his  undoubted  gifts  to 
Bristol  proved  to  be,  in  a  way,  her  most  valuable 
possession.  A  little  to  the  south  of  his  surburban 
residence  rose  a  hill  and  thereon  (of  ancient  foun- 
dation) a  church  of  St.  Mary.  Tradition  assigned 
the  origin  of  this  church  chiefly  to  the  liberality  of 
one  Simon  de  Burton  or  Bortonne,  a  famous  citizen 
and  six  times  mayor  of  Bristol,  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  though  tradition  was  probably  wrong.  In 
the  time  of  the  elder  William  Canynge  the  church 
had  fallen  into  much  decay.  The  grandfather  had 
begun  to  rebuild  it;  the  grandson  took  up  the  pious 
work  and  completed  it  at  his  own  expense  and  that 
not  small,  for  it  is  a  majestic  edifice.  What  share 
he  had  in  the  design  of  the  restoration  is  lost  with 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS         5 

more  important  matters  in  the  dust  of  the  ages;  but 
he  had  a  fancy  for  building,  a  clear  eye,  the  sense  of 
beauty,  and  if  the  plan  had  no  origin  in  his  mind, 
doubtless  it  was  of  his  choosing.  The  result  was  the 
most  beautiful  specimen  of  Perpendicular  architec- 
ture in  England  and  probably  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world.  Queen  Elizabeth,  when  she  saw  St. 
Mary  Redcliffe,  declared  it  to  be  the  fairest  and  good- 
liest parish  church  in  her  realm,  and  whatever  may 
have  been  her  shortcomings  otherwise,  about  such 
things  she  had  a  nice  and  discerning  taste.  The 
church  is,  indeed,  a  kind  of  poem  in  stone,  so  ex- 
quisitely is  it  proportioned  and  so  faultlessly  done. 
Height,  length,  breadth,  convey  an  inevitable  im- 
pression of  massive  and  adorned  nobility;  between 
the  length  of  the  nave  and  the  height  of  the  tower, 
between  outline  and  ornamentation,  between  detail 
and  detail,  is  such  wedded  harmony  as  seems  to 
strike  audible  notes  of  pleasure.  The  main  portal 
has  a  noble  arch,  the  finials  are  most  graceful,  the 
tracery  of  eaves  and  cornice  is  like  lace-work.  About 
it  all,  merely  to  look  at  it,  is  a  singular  and  romantic 
charm.  The  other  churches  of  Bristol,  as  elsewhere 
in  England,  are  interesting  enough  but  rather  plain; 
this  among  parish  churches  stands  almost  alone  in 
the  rich  and  intricate  beauty  of  its  conception  and 
the  perfect  adaptation  of  all  its  adornments  to  the 
general  effect.  Gazed  at  from  a  little  distance  it 


6  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

seems  to  be  more  of  the  air  than  of  earth  and  to 
possess  spiritual  significance  both  restful  and  in- 
spiring. 

The  crown  of  all  its  beauties  is  the  wonderful 
North  Porch,  a  hexagonal  tower  of  no  great  height, 
but  sweetly  planned  and  harmoniously  decorated, 
as  near  perfection  as  English  architecture  can  show, 
whereof  the  clean  richness  infallibly  arrests  every 
observing  eye.  In  this  tower,  on  the  east  side  of 
the  entrance  (which  has  a  groined  ceiling),  was  made 
a  spiral  staircase,  and  this  led  by  many  steps  to  a 
room  at  the  top,  lighted  by  windows  in  each  of  the 
six  sides.  Here  in  great  locked  chests  were  kept 
the  records  of  the  church  and  its  treasures,  the  silver 
urns  and  vessels  of  its  altar,  the  moneys  that  came 
to  it,  and  in  the  end,  the  parchment  property  deeds 
of  the  land  in  the  parish.  This  place  was  called  the 
Muniment  Room. 

Here  comes  in  the  other  man  of  this  story,  the  sup- 
posed priest,  the  mysterious  person  whose  very  name 
was  afterward  for  almost  a  century  a  thing  to  pre- 
cipitate furious  controversy,  whose  very  existence  is 
bound  in  such  clouds  of  endless  and  baffling  specu- 
lation that  no  man  may  now  come  to  the  truth.  So 
meager  are  the  certain  facts,  so  vast  and  imposing  the 
fabric  of  romance  reared  upon  them,  there  is  scarcely 
another  character  in  English  history  more  alluring 
to  futile  fancy  building.  Assuredly  there  was  a 


The  Famous  North  Porch  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe. 

(  The  Muniment  Room,  which  contained  "  Canynge's  Coffer  "  and  the  old  parch- 
ments, is  at  the  top,  lighted  by  the  narrow  windows.) 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS         7 

Thomas  Rowley;  he  seems  to  have  been  of  the 
church,  he  was  in  Bristol  at  the  time  St.  Mary  Red- 
cliffe  was  rebuilt.  The  records  of  the  adjacent  see 
of  Wells  speak  of  his  ordaining  to  be  an  acolyth 
there.  Tradition  or  wild  imagination  has  assigned 
him  conspicuous  share  in  William  Canynge's  great 
work.  Whether  he  was  the  rich  man's  dearest 
friend,  confidant  and  adviser,  whether  he  was  a 
scholar  notable  in  his  times,  whether  he  was  any 
friend  of  learning,  or  whether,  as  there  is  some 
reason  to  think,  he  was  no  more  than  a  plain  and 
common-place  good  citizen,  nothing  certain  can  be 
said;  and  yet,  in  the  strangest  way,  the  mere  name 
of  him,  the  mere  suggestion  of  his  shadowy  being, 
has  come  to  be  of  far  more  importance  in  the 
world  than  the  blazoned  deeds  of  many  a  less 
dubious  hero. 

To  the  church  he  had  so  handsomely  recreated 
the  merchant  was  open  handed.  Tradition  has 
hung  upon  the  garment  of  his  life  a  deal  of  philan- 
thropic embroidery,  but  of  his  repeated  benefactions 
to  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  is  genuine  record.  In  small 
things  and  in  great  there  is  evidence  of  his  essential 
goodness;  indeed,  he  must  have  been  a  pleasant  man 
to  know,  a  kind  of  human  oasis  in  the  acrid  desert 
of  his  times,  for  he  had  democratic  tendencies  and 
a  kindly  heart.  For  instance,  when  his  cook  died 
he  buried  him  in  the  floor  of  the  church  at  the  south 


8  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

end  of  the  transept,  and  adorned  the  tombstone  with 
emblems  of  the  dead  man's  craft.  This  might  mean 
merely  that  William  Coke  was  a  master  of  his  art 
and  testify  as  much  of  the  mayor's  appreciation  of 
venison  pasty  as  of  his  democracy,  were  it  not  that 
Canynge  was  a  passing  spare  man  of  ascetic  habits, 
and  that  when  John  Brewer  and  James  Purse- 
bearer,  also  of  his  household,  went  likewise  the  way 
of  flesh,  he  honored  each  with  a  similar  tribute. 
Of  the  general  impress  he  made  upon  the  common 
mind  of  his  day  there  is  ample  evidence.  It  must 
have  been  a  sincere  affection  in  which  he  was  held, 
for  it  long  survived  him  and  had  a  curiously  indelible 
stamp. 

He  was  excellently  married,  but  his  children  all 
died  in  infancy.  For  his  wife,  Johanna,  he  cherished 
an  esteem  and  a  reverent  affection  rather  out  of  the 
common.  When  she  died  he  paid  to  her  virtues  the 
honor  of  a  beautiful  effigy  in  St.  Mary  Redcliffe, 
and  a  tribute  of  celibacy  that,  according  to  tra- 
dition, resulted,  strangely  enough,  in  the  fall  of  all 
his  earthly  hopes  and  the  ruin  of  his  public  career. 

Politically,  the  times  grew  worse,  the  sun  of  York 
began  to  eclipse  the  gentle  Lancaster,  brawl  and 
riot  swelled  to  open  war.  From  sincere  sympathy 
Canynge  was  a  Lancastrian.  In  some  wonderful 
way  he  so  held  his  course  that  abating  no  jot  of  his 
affection  for  Henry  he  kept  his  state  and  fortune 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS         9 

after  the  White  Rose  had  triumphed  and  Edward 
IV  was  come  to  the  throne.  But  he  went  not 
altogether  unpunished.  After  a  time  the  genial 
monarch  came  down  to  Bristol  on  what  may  be 
termed  a  visit  of  inspection  for  his  own  profit,  and 
made  himself  a  guest  at  the  Red  Lodge.  Canynge 
lavishly  entertained  his  powerful  and  erratic  visitor, 
but  was  doubtless  not  grieved  when  he  departed. 
The  whole  incident  might  well  have  been  viewed  with 
concern,  for  it  appears  that  Edward,  having  utilized 
his  opportunity  as  a  guest  to  learn  much  of  the 
wealth  of  Bristol  (where  there  had  been  many 
Lancastrians),  soon  after  levied  upon  the  city  a  fine 
"for  his  peace."  That  is  to  say,  he  replenished  his 
exchequer  at  the  expense  both  of  his  late  foes  and 
his  more  recent  entertainers.  From  Canynge  he 
took  three  thousand  marks  in  ten  vessels,  a  predation 
that  must  have  been  a  heavy  blow  to  the  merchant. 

Royal  Edward  had  other  attentions  in  store. 
There  was  at  court  in  those  days  a  titled  lady  of  the 
Widville  family  that  for  reasons  of  his  own  the 
amiable  king  desired  to  have  married,  and  it  may 
have  struck  the  kingly  mind  that  Canynge,  being  a 
commoner,  would  feel  flattered  by  an  offer  of  such 
a  union.  Obviously  the  merchant  had  other  views 
of  the  matter.  We  have  no  knowledge  of  the  fair 
lady  Widville,  appointed  to  confer  upon  him  the 
honor  of  her  hand,  but  we  have  some  knowledge 


10  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  Edward  IV,  and  we  may  suppose  that  more  rea- 
sons than  fidelity  to  the  memory  of  his  late  wife  had 
weight  with  the  merchant.  He  demurred  to  the 
royal  will  and  was  unmoved  when  the  masterful 
Edward  insisted.  It  was  an  age  when  the  ax  was 
handy  and  the  headsman  industrious;  Canynge  had 
known  in  his  own  city  some  horrid  instances  of  what 
kings  could  do  with  these  instruments  of  their 
pleasure,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  assuring  his  safety. 
With  what  part  of  his  means  was  tractile  he  fled  to 
the  church,  took  holy  orders,  and  sanctuary  shut 
its  doors  in  the  baffled  king's  face. 

Esoteric  consolations  seem  to  have  availed  much 
with  the  undismayed  Canynge.  He  retired  pres- 
ently to  the  Abbey  at  Westbury.  The  rest  of  his 
life,  eight  years,  he  spent  in  the  ministrations  of  his 
office  and  in  good  deeds,  among  which  was  the  found- 
ing of  a  college.  He  died  November  7,  1474,  Dean 
of  Westbury.  Two  effigies  of  him  adorn  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe.  One  showing  him  in  his  magisterial  robes 
as  mayor  of  Bristol  was  made  in  his  lifetime  and 
designed  to  lie  by  the  side  of  his  wife's  image.  The 
other,  copied  from  this,  is  carved  in  alabaster  and 
shows  him  garbed  as  the  Dean  of  Westbury.  The 
rare  tribute  of  two  effigies  in  one  church  is  suf- 
ficent  evidence  of  the  esteem  in  which  the  community 
held  this  unusual  man.  If  the  sculptured  face,  as 
is  probable,  resembled  the  living,  the  merchant 


AN  EARLY  DAY  SCHOLAR  IN  POLITICS        II 

prince  was  of  a  thoughtful  and  somewhat  melan- 
choly expression  and  must  have  been  an  interesting 
figure. 

Something  of  his  story  is  told   in  this  epitaph 
in  the  wall  above  the  alabaster  figure: 

Mr  William  Caning3,  ye  Richest  marchant  of  ye  towne 
of  Bristow  afterwards  chosen  5  time8  mayor  of  yc  said 
towne  for  ye  good  of  ye  comon  wealth  of  ye  fame.     Hee 
was  in  order  of  Priesthood  7  years  &  afterwards 
Deane  of  Westbury  and  died  ye  7th  of  Novem  1474 
which  said  William  did  build  within  ye  said  towne  of 
Westbury  a  Colledge  (which  his  canons)  &  ye  said 
William  did  maintaine  by  space  of  8  years  800  handy 
crafts  men,  besides  carpenters   &  masons,  every  day 
100  men.     Besides  King  Edward  ye  4th  had  of  ye  said 
William  3000  marks  for  his  peacc  to  be  had  in  2470 l 
tonnes  of  sniping. 
These  are  ye  names  of  his  shiping  with  their  burthen 

TONNES  TONNES 

ye  Mary  Canings 400  ye  Mary  Batt 22O  . 

ye  Mary  Redcliffe 500  Ye  Little  Nicholas    140 

ye  Mary  &  John    900  ye  Margarett 200 

ye  Galliott    050  ye  Katharine  of  Boston     22 

ye  Katherine    140  A  ship  in  Ireland     100 

Close  at  hand  is  this  metrical  tribute,  no  doubt  of 
a  later  date: 

1  Thus  the  inscription.     The  tonnage  of  the  ships  in  the  list  is  not  "2470"  but 
2672.     But  these  carvers  of  epitaphs  were  a  careless  race. 


12  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

No  age  nor  time  can  wear  out  well  won  fame 

the  stones  themselves  a  featly  worke  doth  shew 

from  senceless  grave  we  ground  may  men's  good  name 

And  noble  minds  by  ventrous  deeds  we  know 

A  lanterne  cleere  settes  forth  a  candell  light 

A  worthy  act  declares  a  worthy  wight 

the  Buildings  rare  that  here  you  may  behold 

to  shrine  his  Bones  deserves  a  tombe  of  gold 

the  famous  Fabricke  that  he  here  hath  donn.e 

shines  in  the  sphere  as  glorious  as  the  sonne 

What  needs  more  words  yc  future  world  he  sought 

An  set  ye  pompe  &  pride  of  this  at  nought 

heaven  was  his  aime  let  heaven  be  still  his  stat'on 

that  leaves  such  work*  for  others  imitation. 

Of  Rowley  there  is  no  more  record.  He  came  and 
went  like  a  shadow  across  the  face  of  events,  with 
only  to  tell  of  his  passing  a  scantly  discernible  name. 


II 

DREAMS  AND  REALITIES 

WILLIAM,  thus  the  last  of  the  Canynges,  had  been 
dust  three  hundred  years;  part  of  his  beautiful  house 
had  been  demolished  and  the  rest  obscured;  the 
name  of  Thomas  Rowley  had  faded  from  the  human 
memory;  the  life  records  of  historic  merchant  and 
legendary  friend  with  all  their  ways  and  works  were 
knee-deep  in  the  dead  leaves  of  oblivion;  when  sud- 
denly both  were  revived  to  fame  through  the  appear- 
ance of  a  figure  much  more  remarkable  than  either. 

Almost  in  the  shadow  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  in 
a  narrow  and  now  squalid  street  that  bounds  the 
churchyard  on  the  north,  is  a  little  two-storied  stone 
schoolhouse,  fronted  by  a  thin  strip  of  verdure  and 
abutting  rearward  upon  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
garden.  It  is  almost  two  hundred  years  old,  the 
seat  of  a  school  founded  by  a  charitable  tradesman 
of  Bristol  in  1733.  Within,  the  square  uncom- 
promising schoolroom  occupies  the  front  part  of  the 
ground  floor;  the  rest  of  the  house  is  the  narrow 
quarters  of  the  master  and  his  family.  Over  this 
Pyle  Street  school,  from  1738  to  1752,  presided  one 

13 


I4  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Thomas  Chatterton,  much  given  to  conviviality  and 
a  little  to  music;  on  Sundays  a  singing  man,  or  sub- 
chanter,  in  the  Bristol  Cathedral;  on  other  days 
chiefly  busied  (outside  of  his  school)  at  a  club  the 
main  object  of  which  seems  to  have  been  to  pro- 
mote among  its  members  a  habit  of  excessive  drink- 
ing. An  ordinary  man  of  ordinary  stock,  he  was 
the  first  of  his  tribe  in  a  long  line  of  succession  to 
depart  from  one  calling.  Father  and  son,  the  Chat- 
tertons  had  been  sextons  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  In  his  case,  the  inno- 
vation was  hardly  of  his  own  choosing.  His  father, 
John  Chatterton,  had  survived  in  active  discharge 
of  the  sexton's  duties  beyond  the  time  when  the  son 
must  seek  a  livelihood.  He  was  thirty-five  when 
the  post  became  vacant,  and  being  then  set  in  other 
ways  and  uninclined  toward  the  cold  hie  jacets  of 
the  dead,  the  place  of  his  fathers  passed  to  the  pos- 
session of  his  sister's  husband,  Richard  Phillips. 

The  schoolmaster  was  of  no  scholarly  habit;  his 
mind  was  not  thoughtful,  nor,  indeed,  above  medi- 
ocrity, and  yet  he  was  not  destitute  of  taste  and  some 
crude  fancy  for  literature.  He  knew  something 
about  music  and  even  composed  a  catch  for  three 
voices,  a  kind  of  drinking  song,  said  to  be  an  ex- 
tremely dull  performance.  He  sang  well,  he  loved 
good  roaring  company  at  the  ale  house,  he  was  care- 
less, plodding,  unaspiring,  and  without  a  trait  to 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  15 

distinguish  him  from  his  roistering  kind.  In  fact,  a 
colorless  person,  even  in  his  bibulous  way  of  life  not 
beyond  the  general  custom  of  his  age;  for  he  was 
not  quite  a  sot.  He  had  to  wife  Sarah  Young,  a 
decent,  plain  woman,  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  able 
to  read  and  write,  whom  he  had  married  in  a  near-by 
hamlet,  to  wit,  Chipping-Sudbury,  where  she  lived. 
She  was  less  than  half  his  age  at  the  time,  that  is, 
she  was  sixteen  and  he  thirty-five.  He  seemed  to 
care  little  for  her,  and  some  observant  cronies,  seeing 
that  he  preferred  the  tavern  to  home  and  roisterers 
to  his  wife's  company,  wondered  that  he  had  wed  at 
all.  "To  get  a  house-keeper,"  was  his  curt  explana- 
tion of  this  mystery.  They  had  one  child,  a  little 
girl,  Mary,  not  different  from  other  children.  A 
son,  Giles  Malpas  Chatterton,  named  in  honor  of 
the  builder  of  the  Pyle  Street  schoolhouse,  had  died 
in  infancy.  The  schoolmaster  was  not  of  robust 
constitution,  his  habits  made  against  health,  and  he 
died  August  7,  1752,  aged  thirty-nine,  of  a  cold 
and  fever,  due  to  exposure,  probably  when  he  was 
drunk. 

Three  months  after  his  death,  that  is  to  say,  on 
November  20,  1752,  in  the  rear  room  up-stairs  in  the 
little  schoolhouse,  where  the  windows  look  out  upon 
the  remnants  of  the  garden,  his  third  child,  a  son, 
came  into  this  world,  and  was  christened  with  his 
name. 


16  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

The  father  had  been  shiftless  and  improvident; 
he  left  nothing  but  a  scant  handful  of  books  and  a 
memory  none  too  fragrant,  and  the  young  widow 
was  in  straits  for  bread.  There  were  four  to  care 
for;  besides  the  children  her  mother  was  dependent 
upon  her.  A  new  master  was  appointed  for  the  Pyle 
Street  school,  and  the  dwelling  was  his.  As  soon  as 
might  be  the  little  family  moved,  going  into  a  poor 
house  up  a  dark  court  on  Redcliffe  hill,  almost  oppo- 
site the  main  portal  of  the  church.  Here  Mrs. 
Chatterton  settled  into  a  grim  struggle  against  star- 
vation, making  her  way  by  keeping  a  little  day  school 
for  very  young  girls  (a  kind  of  forerunning  kinder- 
garten), and  by  toiling  industriously  with  her  needle. 
She  was  a  large,  motherly  soul,  simple,  unimagina- 
tive and  affectionate.  The  little  girls  that  at  her 
knee  learned  their  alphabets  and  reading  became 
so  fond  of  her  that  always  afterward  they  looked 
upon  her  as  on  a  foster  mother,  and  when  they  grew 
up  and  were  matrons  they  went  back  to  visit  and 
assist  her  in  her  age  and  heavy  troubles. 

When  the  boy  Thomas  was  five  years  old  his 
mother  sent  him  to  the  same  Pyle  Street  school,  in 
the  house  where  he  had  been  born.  After  a  time  the 
master  returned  him  home  with  the  information  that 
he  was  too  hopelessly  dull  to  learn  his  letters.  At 
home  they  thought  him  rather  taciturn  and  strange 
than  dull.  He  was  a  grave  little  man  and  a  lonely, 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  17 

but  handsome  and  of  an  expression  intelligent 
though  melancholy;  slender  and  fair,  with  long  light 
brown  hair.  His  disposition  puzzled  his  mother  and 
might  have  puzzled  those  of  more  wit.  He  was  at 
once  exceedingly  sensitive  and  exceedingly  proud, 
affectionate  and  moody,  and  the  oddest  thing  was 
that  he  had  little  interest  in  childish  amusements, 
did  not  care  much  to  play  with  other  children,  some- 
times wept  for  no  apparent  reason  and  was  fond  of 
solitude  and  most  fond  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe. 

All  the  threads  of  this  story  lead  to  St.  Mary  Red- 
cliffe. Thomas  Chatterton  had  been  born  in  its 
shadow,  he  dwelt  across  the  street  from  it,  his  an- 
cestors for  generations  back  had  been  employed  in  it, 
and  now,  his  relative  Richard  Phillips,  its  sexton 
(sometimes  called  his  uncle),  was  the  only  person 
outside  of  his  own  household  in  whom  he  manifested 
an  affectionate  interest.  With  Phillips  he  struck  up 
a  close  friendship;  they  were  much  together,  a  strange 
and  ill-assorted  couple,  for  the  sexton  was  elderly 
and  the  boy  small  for  his  age.  Day  after  day  they 
walked  through  the  church  or  in  the  churchyard, 
the  boy  clinging  to  the  old  man's  hand  and  hearing 
with  insatiable  appetite  all  the  centuries'  accumulated 
lore  about  the  place  with  which  he  was  strangely 
fascinated.  It  was  the  home  of  legends,  time  out  of 
mind  the  sexton's  inheritance,  and  it  is  the  ancient 
privilege  of  legend  handed  down  from  generation  to 


1 8  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

generation  to  lose  nothing  on  its  way.  Probably 
many  of  the  stories  of  the  church  that  passed  from 
the  gray-headed  sexton  to  his  little  charge  would 
have  added  a  new  and  picturesque  quality  to  plain 
history. 

The  boy  that  was  too  dull  to  be  taught  his  letters 
presently  learned  them  without  teaching,  lying 
prone  upon  the  floor  of  his  mother's  house  with  the 
cover  of  an  old  music  book  or  a  great  black-letter 
Bible  opened  before  him  and  tracing  out  the  big 
blocks  with  his  little  fingers.  His  mother  and  his 
sister  helping  him,  he  quickly  learned  to  read,  and 
developed  almost  at  once  a  passion  for  reading  that 
fell  not  far  short  of  a  mania.  He  read  everything  in 
his  mother's  house  and,  hungering  always  for  more, 
began  to  forage  in  the  houses  of  the  few  neighbors 
that  had  books. 

In  those  days  there  was  no  fiction  for  children  and 
precious  little  for  adults.  People  satisfied  the  imagi- 
native longings  by  constructing  what  romance  they 
could  from  the  bony  material  of  their  own  lives  and 
environments,  often  hard  enough,  or  went  without. 
The  boy  could  find  little  reading  that  did  not  partake 
of  the  juiceless  life  of  the  age,  but  upon  all  he  fell  as 
one  starving ;  some  scraps  of  history,  Spenser's  Fae- 
rie Queene,  the  poems  of  Gray  and  of  Pope,  scien- 
tific treatises,  the  few  and  poor  magazines  of  the  day, 
whatever  he  could  find.  These  were  his  playmates, 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  19 

comrades,  confidants,  and  friends  —  books  and  the 
church,  the  beautiful  church  that  from  the  first 
seemed  to  dominate  all  his  thoughts  and  dreams. 
For  hours  together  he  would  lie  and  gaze  and  brood 
upon  it,  stretched  under  a  tree  in  the  meadows  that 
once  lay  to  the  southward  and  are  now  long  obliter- 
ated by  squares  of  ugly  brick.  Daily  he  roamed 
about  it,  sometimes  with  his  friend  the  old  sexton, 
sometimes  alone,  taking  into  his  childish  mind  his- 
tory and  legends  of  building  and  builders,  and  with 
infinite  delight  learning  and  repeating  even  the  small- 
est details.  There  was  endless  store  of  material, 
the  effigies,  the  moldering  arms  of  William  Penn's 
father,  that  doughty  old  warrior,  the  quaint  inscrip- 
tions, the  painted  glass,  the  air  of  romance  and 
mysticism.  Stories  were  thick  about  him.  There 
was  the  great  whale  bone  about  which  the  romancers 
had  rewoven  the  old  ballad  tale  of  the  Great  Dun  Cow 
and  Guy  of  Warwick,  the  tale  of  Dunsmore  and  its 
weird  creature.  No  child  could  see  such  a  thing 
without  asking  what  it  meant,  that  huge  yellow  bone; 
no  imaginative  child  could  hear  the  story,  that  this 
was  the  very  rib  of  the  identical  Great  Cow  slain  in 
combat  by  the  adventurous  knight,  without  a  stirring 
to  long  trains  of  fantastic  dreamings.  Who  was  Guy 
of  Warwick  and  what  other  deeds  of  prowess  did 
he  ?  And  there  was  the  crumbling  image  of  the  old 
Crusader,  in  all  his  arms,  suggestive  of  chivalry  and 


26  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  Lion  Heart.  There  was  the  alabaster  effigy  of 
Canynge,  so  unusual  and  beautiful,  and  there  was 
that  baffling,  half-told,  strange  story  of  the  epitaph. 
What  boy  could  read  that  and  not  burn  with  curi- 
osity to  know  what  it  meant?  "For  his  peace" 
why  for  his  peace  ?  And  all  that  confiscated  shipping 
the  very  names  of  which  seemed  to  suggest  queer  old 
quays  loaded  with  strange  bales  from  the  east,  and 
queerly  dressed  sailors,  pirates  and  perils,  and  the 
mystery  of  the  seas  when  there  was  no  America.  And 
this  Canynge  —  five  times  Mayor  of  Bristol,  the 
richest  man  of  his  age,  the  munificent  builder  of  the 
church  that  engrossed  the  boy's  thoughts  —  what 
manner  of  man  had  he  been  ?  There  was  his  image, 
the  fine,  clear-cut  face,  the  lofty  forehead,  the  haunt- 
ing suggestion  of  pain  and  melancholy,  and  of  high, 
resolute  will;  and  then  again  in  the  glory  of  the  magis- 
terial robes.  So  men  were  dressed  like  that  in 
Canynge's  time;  richly  and  beautifully  dressed  like 
that!  What  a  sight  it  must  have  been  when  such  men 
walked  in  a  procession!  He  had  seen  on  Palm  Sunday 
in  the  church  that  he  loved  and  dreamed  over  and 
brooded  upon  the  peculiar  ceremony  of  Rush-bearing, 
the  mayor  of  his  own  day  walking  at  the  head  of  the 
stately  show,  the  civic  dignitaries,  the  choir  boys. 
What  must  it  have  been  when  men  wore  gorgeous 
robes  like  Canynge's,  or  went  about  the  street  clad 
in  armor  and  bearing  swords  and  pikes  ? 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  21 

As  he  grew  older  and  wandered  farther  in  his  lonely 
childish  way,  dreaming  and  musing,  those  streets 
seemed  the  perfect  background  of  his  fancies, 
the  quaint,  narrow  old  thoroughfares,  lined  with 
brown  cross-timbered  houses,  whereof  the  upper 
stories  projected  successively  farther  over  the  side- 
walks. The  very  names  were  suggestive,  Corn  Street, 
Wine  Street,  and  the  like,  being  (as  in  some  old 
continental  cities  like  Lucerne  and  Leyden)  relics  of 
ancient  market  customs.  Part  of  the  old  city  wall 
still  stood,  crossing  the  city  with  a  great  arch  whereon 
was,  strangely  placed,  a  little  Gothic  chapel,  with 
painted  windows,  a  silent  tantalizing  witness  of  by- 
gone days;  and  then  going  on  up  the  hill  with  em- 
brasures for  archers  and  slits  for  cross-bow  men, 
things  the  sight  of  which  would  bear  in  upon  any 
boy  a  whole  romance.  To  reach  this  marvel  he 
must  cross  a  bridge,  built  up  like  the  old  Bridge  of 
London  with  houses  on  each  side  of  the  way,  a  strange 
structure  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  he  knew 
that  over  it  had  trooped  the  soldiers  of  York  and 
Lancaster,  that  its  sleepy  old  arches  had  resounded 
with  jingle  of  armor  and  clash  of  broadsword,  that 
cross-bow  bolts  and  long  arrows  had  whistled  about  it. 
Not  far  from  the  bridge  but  away  from  the  city  wall 
he  found  the  old  Temple  Church,  its  tower  leaning 
over  as  if  it  were  about  to  fall  and  yet  never  falling. 
Why  should  it  lean  over  like  that  ?  And  was  this 


22  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  church  built  by  the  Templars,  the  gallant  Cru- 
saders that  had  been  to  Palestine  and  fought  with 
Richard  ?  Was  this  their  visible  work,  had  they  gone 
in  procession  in  and  out  of  that  door  ?  Then  there 
was  that  strange  place,  St.  Peter's  Hospital,  built 
in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and  St.  Stephen's  Church, 
curiously  carved  and  richly  ornamented,  and  St. 
Ewin's,  the  church  that  in  the  old  brave  times  was 
Bristol  Minster.  His  father  had  been  a  singing- 
man,  his  mother  had  told  him,  in  the  present  Bristol 
Cathedral;  here  was  the  place  that  in  the  older  days 
had  been  the  center  of  the  religious  life  of  the  town, 
the  great  authorities  of  the  church  had  gathered  there. 
And  then  there  was  that  wonderful  old  Norman  gate- 
way close  by  the  Cathedral;  what  did  that  mean  ? 
It  was  so  large  that  people  lived  in  it;  the  gateway 
to  the  old  Abbey,  he  had  been  told.  That  must 
have  been  a  great  place  when  the  monks  thronged 
in  and  out  and  the  cloisters  still  stood. 

But  in  all  these  wonders  there  was  none  like  his 
own  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
churches  of  Bristol,  the  home  and  goal  of  his  fancies. 
The  long  nave,  the  arched  transept,  the  silent  aisles, 
the  chancel  rilled  with  colored  twilight,  —  he  peopled 
these  from  the  churchyard  and  the  tombs  until  the 
persons  of  an  imaginary  drama  became  as  real  to  him 
as  anything  he  saw.  Nothing  is  commoner  among 
children  that  have  the  least  imagination  than  these 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  23 

mental  operations  in  which  suppositious  beings  take 
part  in  a  continuous  action  stretched  over  months  or 
years,  daily  added  to  and  revised  until  the  narrative 
assumes  the  importance  of  verity.  And  whereas  the 
average  child  has,  in  his  daily  play,  a  thousand  ave- 
nues for  the  venting  of  his  imaginings,  feigning  this  or 
that  with  his  playmates,  feigning  at  going  to  school, 
or  keeping  house,  or  marching  armies,  this  boy  had 
but  one.  For  him,  a  lonely  unfriended  waif,  there 
was  but  one.  The  church  was  everything  to  him, 
playmate,  comrade,  friend;  it  took  all  the  place  of 
toys  and  playground;  life  for  him  seemed  to  begin 
there  and  end.  There  all  the  actors  in  his  imaginary 
drama  were  connected  with  the  church.  There  he 
gathered  the  fragments  of  the  story  of  William 
Canynge,  the  gorgeous  rebuilding  of  this  sacred 
place,  the  beautiful  house,  the  splendor  and  pomp 
of  Canynge's  state;  and  long  meditations,  long  asso- 
ciations with  the  creatures  of  his  brain,  made  them 
seem  living  to  him.  They  would  have  seemed  so, 
in  a  measure,  to  an  ordinary  boy,  but  this  boy  was 
not  ordinary.  He  had  from  the  beginning  an  abnor- 
mal imagination,  beyond  precedent,  almost  beyond 
belief;  and  in  his  solitary,  cheerless  way  of  life  his 
natural  gift  had  so  grown  upon  him  that  the  dead 
heroes  he  dreamed  of  walked  and  talked  with  him 
and  became  sharers  of  his  daily  experiences.  Sitting 
alone  in  the  transept  hour  after  hour,  the  carved 


24  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

image  of  Canynge  before  him,  the  tombstones  of 
Master  Coke  and  Master  Brewer  at  his  feet,  the 
story  slowly  filled  and  possessed  his  mind,  the  ro- 
mance of  the  generous  merchant  prince,  the  author 
and  begetter  of  that  beauty  he  worshiped,  the  mind 
that  had  seen  this  wonderful  place  in  his  visions, 
perhaps,  before  a  stone  had  been  laid  or  a  beam 
cut.  He  saw  him  in  the  glory  of  the  Red  Lodge, 
he  saw  the  fleet  of  ships  and  piles  of  goods,  he  saw 
him  building  this  church,  he  saw  him  mayor,  at  the 
head  of  great  processions,  the  wise  director  of  his 
city's  affairs  in  troublous  times;  he  saw  him  defy  a 
king  and  abandon  all  his  possessions  rather  than 
yield  to  tyrannical  authority;  and  again  in  the  quiet 
sanctuary  of  Westbury,  secure  amid  his  studies.  And 
this  great  man  was  so  generous  and  compassionate, 
no  doubt  in  those  days  if  there  was  a  youth  or  even 
boy,  no  matter  how  poor  he  might  be,  that  wished  to 
do  great  things  in  the  world  and  become  famous,  this 
man  would  help  him.  Being  so  rich  he  must  have 
had  plenty  of  books,  and  loving  books  he  must  have 
loved  the  men  that  wrote  them.  No  doubt  at  the 
Red  Lodge,  with  knights  in  armor  and  all  things  beau- 
tiful about,  were  scholars  and  writers,  historians  and 
poets  like  those  of  whom  he  had  been  reading.  Every 
normal  boy  has  a  hero,  flesh  and  blood,  or  one  he 
has  heard  or  read  of.  To  this  boy  Canynge  was 
more  than  hero,  for  this  figure  conjured  from  the 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  25 

past  became  the  inseparable  companion  of  his  dreamy 
wanderings. 

Besides  the  church  and  Red  Lodge  there  were 
other  reminders  of  Canynge;  at  home  one  of  the  most 
familiar  of  daily  sights  was  suggestively  coupled 
with  that  name.  Those  chests  in  the  Muniment 
Room  at  the  top  of  North  Porch,  "  Mr.  Canynge's 
Coffer,"  as  the  sexton  called  one  of  them,  and  the 
others,  contained  parish  deeds  and  records,  and 
some  years  before  it  had  been  necessary  to  consult 
these  documents.  The  chests  were  locked,  the  keys 
had  been  lost,  and  the  chests  being  forced  open  with 
an  ax  were  left  unsecured  when  such  papers  as  were 
needed  had  been  taken  out.  The  parchments  with 
which  the  chests  were  filled  became  accessible,  and 
being  regarded  as  valueless  were  kicked  about  the 
Muniment  Room,  and  got  abroad.  The  boy's  father 
had  spied  a  use  in  them,  and  bringing  home  ample 
supplies  from  repeated  excursions  had  made  of  them 
excellent  covers  for  his  pupils'  books.  The  supply 
exceeded  the  demand;  some  old  parchments  still 
lay  about  the  Chatterton  house  or  were  used  by  the 
prudent  housewife  for  thread  papers  and  so  forth,  all 
from  Canynge's  Coffer,  all  directly  connected  with 
his  hero  and  suggesting  the  ideal  life  at  Red  Lodge. 
It  would  have  been  a  dull  boy  that  with  such  materials 
could  not  loose  back  his  imagination  to  the  days  when 
processions  of  singing  monks  threaded  the  dim  aisles, 


26  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

when  knights  jousted  on  the  meadows  close  at  hand, 
when  York  and  Lancaster  clashed  in  the  streets  of 
Bristol,  when  the  now  obliterated  castle  was  a  prison 
for  the  beaten  Lancastrians,  when  some  of  them 
were  put  to  death  at  the  High  Cross,  when  the  city 
wall  was  manned  with  soldiers,  when  the  Red  Lodge 
was  built  in  the  midst  of  gardens  sloping  to  the  water, 
when  stone  by  stone  arose  the  airy  fabric  of  the  church, 
when  Bristol  was  but  a  little  seaport,  its  streets 
filled  with  strangely  armed  men,  and  its  harbors 
with  vessels  of  strange  shapes,  when  it  was  smaller 
still,  when  it  was  a  Saxon  settlement  commanded 
by  a  castle,  when  it  was  an  outpost  thrust  into  the 
hostile  country  by  the  fierce  invaders,  when  it  held 
the  Danes  at  bay,  when  the  huts  of  savage  woad- 
painted  Britons  huddled  about  the  Avon  and  on 
those  banks  the  Druid  priests  had  cut  themselves 
with  strange  knives.  Of  all  these  things  the  boy 
had  read  and  read,  and  here  were  the  scenes  where 
they  had  been  and  where  now,  to  his  imagination, 
wrapped  in  his  dreams,  the  old  actors  returned  to 
the  old  places,  knights  and  monks  and  merchant 
prince  lived  again. 

In  these  years  he  was  a  strange  boy,  loving  soli- 
tude and  his  own  thoughts,  mostly  without  boy  play- 
mates or  play,  often  silent  and  abstracted,  sometimes 
speechless  for  so  much  as  two  days  together,  start- 
ling plain  people  (as  were  his  mother's  friends)  by 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  27 

looking  fixedly  at  them  evidently  without  seeing 
them,  absorbed  in  contemplation,  shutting  himself 
into  the  attic  with  a  book,  refusing  food,  and  the  like 
abnormalities.  He  had  a  disconcerting  way  of  sitting 
in  company  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy  while  the 
important  affairs  of  the  neighborhood,  the  price  of 
butter  and  the  like  pertinent  topics,  were  discussed 
about  him,  and  then  returning  suddenly  from  a  far 
journey  to  ask  what  had  been  talked  about.  He  was 
sometimes  so  absent-minded  and  far  gone  in  his 
abstraction  that  he  did  not  hear  when  he  was  directly 
addressed.  If  he  played  with  other  children,  which 
was  seldom,  he  knew  but  one  play  and  that  was  that 
he  should  be  the  master,  ruler,  or  commander.  From 
his  earliest  years  other  children  seemed  to  yield  in- 
stinctively to  him,  that  was  the  odd  thing,  and  never 
he  yielded  to  another.  He  was  ordinarily  most  truth- 
ful and  obedient,  but  his  mother  and  sister  noted 
that  he  would  fall  sometimes  into  violent  fits  of  weep- 
ing for  no  apparent  cause  and  when  pressed  to  know 
why  he  would  be  at  a  loss  for  an  answer  and  say  he 
had  been  beaten  when  there  was  no  such  matter. 
He  seemed  in  a  way  to  have  had  no  youth,  for  he 
passed  from  infancy  to  a  state  where  with  mature 
gravity  and  knowledge  he  talked  of  abstruse  sub- 
jects and  bore  himself  with  a  dignity  and  presence 
that  seem  to  have  moved  some  observers  to  wonder 
and  some  to  amusement.  He  was  not  always  de- 


28  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

pressed;  sometimes  he  was  a  cheerful  and  most  enter- 
taining companion  in  the  home  circle,  discoursing 
of  the  books  he  had  read  and  explaining  to  his 
mother  and  sisters  matters  they  had  dreamed  not 
of.  But  there  was  always  latent  in  him  a  somber 
and  even  sorrowful  regard  that  was  above  and  con- 
tradicted his  mirth.  He  grew  handsomer  with  the 
years.  His  long  hair  curled  and  he  had  wonderful 
gray  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  clean  through  one; 
steady  clear  eyes,  so  marvelous  that  some  persons 
were  fascinated  by  them  and  thought  they  could 
see  his  soul  in  their  depths.  Few  that  observed 
them  attentively  failed  to  feel  strangely  attracted  to 
the  boy.  His  pride  and  his  courage  were  alike 
extraordinary,  and  yet  he  was  sensitive  and  sympa- 
thetic, and  what  was  odd  in  one  so  self-reliant  and  so 
much  alone,  he  was  passionately  devoted  to  his 
mother  and  sister.  A  more  affectionate  nature 
never  lived,  and  all  the  wealth  of  it  was  poured 
out  upon  the  little  home  circle  in  the  poor  dingy 
brick  house  up  a  nasty  court  in  Bristol.  His 
mother  and  his  sister  Mary  were  the  idols  of  his  heart 
and  first  among  the  dreams  of  his  career  was  the 
dream  of  what  he  would  do  for  them.  For  on 
another  side  of  his  nature  he  was  already  planning 
at  times  about  his  way  in  life,  and  he  knew  quite 
well  that  he  was  not  as  other  boys  were. 

He  was  often  absent  from  home  hours  together  and 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  29 

when  sought  for  at  meal  time  —  for  the  painful 
British  regularity  was  hard  upon  the  good  mother  — 
they  found  him  dreaming  about  in  St.  Mary  Redcliffe 
(usually  at  the  tomb  of  Canynge),  or  tucked  away 
somewhere  with  a  book.  He  had  rather  read  than 
eat,  a  fact  that  caused  Mrs.  Chatterton  much  con- 
cern, as  arguing  something  unwholesome  in  her  off- 
spring. When  found  it  was  in  disgrace  that  he  was 
led  to  the  table,  for  shall  it  not  be  criminal  to  be 
late  to  one's  meals  ?  And  sometimes  much  search 
was  necessary  and  then  punishment  followed,  the 
chastening  that  was  held  to  be  proper  for  a  haughty 
spirit  in  youth. 

The  wisdom  that  enables  us  to  prescribe  for  the 
government  of  other  people's  children  so  much 
better  than  for  our  own  was  not  withheld  from  Mrs. 
Chatterton's  women  friends.  They  had  observed 
Thomas  well  and  with  great  concern,  and  the  con- 
census of  their  opinion  was  unfavorable.  What  he 
needed  was  severity  and  much  of  it.  Doubtless  with 
the  best  intentions  they  delivered  this  sage  counsel 
upon  the  perplexed  mother.  There  was  indeed  no 
need,  as  Mercutio  says.  In  that  sweet  age,  wherever 
children  were  the  birch  hung  by  the  Bible  and  had 
at  least  equal  honor.  Parents  had  mind  upon  one 
scriptural  command  if  no  other  and  spared  not. 
Whipping  was  a  means  of  grace  for  children,  and 
should  a  parent  neglect  his  child's  salvation  ?  On 


30  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

one  occasion  his  mother,  out  of  all  patience  with  his 
unboyish  ways,  beat  him  with  unusual  severity.  He 
endured  without  a  murmur,  but  when  it  was  over 
he  remarked  pathetically,  "It  is  hard  to  be  beaten 
for  reading." 

What  to  do  with  such  a  son  must  have  been  a  sore 
puzzle  to  the  widow  whose  wit  and  income  were 
alike  small.  For  the  children  of  the  poor  in  those 
days  the  path  was  hard  and  usually  led  one  way. 
Occasionally  one  born  in  poverty  achieved  by  pro- 
digious endeavor  some  eminence,  but  the  instances 
were  dismally  few.  Such  an  exception,  conspicuous 
in  Bristol  not  long  before,  was  still  well  remembered. 
Edward  Colston,  who,  beginning  obscurely,  had  made 
fame  and  fortune  as  a  merchant,  was  a  liberal  bene- 
factor of  his  native  city  and  some  of  his  philanthropy 
had  naturally  followed  the  suggestion  of  his  own 
ascent.  That  is  to  say,  he  had  founded  in  1708  a 
charity  school  wherein  one  hundred  poor  boys  were 
to  be  trained  for  mercantile  careers.  To  make 
their  election  sure  they  were  to  be  provided  for  in 
every  way,  with  lodging,  clothing,  food,  as  well  as 
tuition.  But  the  number  was  strictly  limited,  the 
pressure  for  admission  very  great,  and  the  widow 
Chatterton  must  have  felt  overjoyed  and  thankful 
when,  a  vacancy  occurring  at  Colston's,  the  inter- 
cession of  friends  and  her  own  endeavors  won  the 
place  for  her  boy  when  he  was  eight  years  old. 


. 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  31 

At  that  time  and  for  many  years  afterward  there 
was  in  England  no  such  institution  as  we  should 
call  a  public  school,  and  the  generality  of  poor 
children  got  their  smattering  of  knowledge  in  the 
private  schools  founded  by  the  philanthropic, 
or  in  schools  maintained  in  some  instances  by 
the  parishes,  or  went  without,  as  fate  and  chance 
might  direct.  In  other  words,  the  rich  fared  well 
enough,  the  poor  shifted  for  themselves  and  for  most 
part  ill,  for  it  was  an  ignorant  age.  Charity  schools 
like  Colston's  were  benevolent  in  design  and  oppres- 
sive in  practise.  The  prevailing  theory  seemed  to  be 
that  the  schools  were  mills  and  the  children  therein 
raw  material  of  an  inferior  nature  sent  upon  the 
teachers  for  their  sins,  to  be  ground  and  hammered 
and  beaten  into  shape.  At  Colston's  the  knowledge 
deemed  essential  for  a  mercantile  career  was  put 
into  the  boys'  heads  by  the  genial  method  of  brad- 
awl and  hammer.  The  pupils  lived  like  machines, 
arose  early,  toiled  assiduously  at  arithmetic,  pen- 
manship, compound  interest,  book-keeping  and  the 
like  succulent  matters  and  were  released  very  late. 
On  one  day  in  the  week  a  half-holiday  was  thought- 
fully provided;  the  rest  of  the  time  they  were 
captives  to  a  hideous  system  of  manufacturing 
shopkeepers'  assistants. 

And  here  begins  the  first  of  the  mysteries  we  are 
to  deal  with.  Nothing  more  repulsive  than  such  a 


32  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

place  could  have  been  devised  for  the  boy  of  dreams. 
What  had  he  to  do  with  interest  tables  and  the  proper 
form  of  a  bill  of  lading  ?  In  all  this  he  had  no  con- 
ceivable concern,  he  whose  mind  was  rapt  upon 
Canynge  and  chivalry,  who  dwelt  perpetually  in  a 
land  of  strange  visions.  The  whole  institution  rilled 
his  soul  with  loathing.  He  had  no  idea  of  being 
a  shopkeeper  or  clerk,  he  cared  nothing  about 
weights  and  measures.  What  should  the  knights 
and  ladies  of  his  romance  do  with  the  computing  of 
bales  of  cloth  and  hogsheads  of  tobacco  ?  What  were 
to  him  the  dull  details  and  hard  rectangles  of  com- 
mercial science  ?  In  one  day  he  passed  from  books 
and  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  and  long  ways  of  rhapsody 
and  meditation  to  the  atmosphere  of  bustling  trade. 
And  yet,  pitchforked  into  this  dreary  treadmill,  the 
amazing  thing  is  that  he  not  only  accepted  all  its 
hard  conditions  and  acquitted  himself  manfully  and 
with  scrupulous  attention  to  his  duties,  but  he 
dreamed  on  as  before.  His  outward  activities  had 
undergone  a  violent  change;  the  soul  and  the  soul's 
real  aims  and  life  remained  as  before.  He  was  a  faith- 
ful student  at  Colston's,  he  learned  his  arithmetic,  per- 
formed his  sums,  was  taught  to  distinguish  between 
troy  weight  and  avoirdupois,  to  compute  bills  and 
master  double-entry;  he  even  managed  to  obey  most 
of  the  rules  and  win  the  approval  of  his  masters,  but 
he  still  found  time  for  the  things  he  loved,  he  still 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  33 

read,  dreamed,  thought,  and  incessantly  laid  by  stores 
of  such  knowledge  as  were  never  taught  in  a  charity 
school.  I  do  not  know  how  he  did  it.  The  soul 
that  would  not  have  been  crushed  in  that  place  must 
have  been  of  extraordinary  texture.  Other  boys  have 
kept  upon  their  chosen  way  in  spite  of  discourage- 
ments and  disadvantages,  —  Samuel  Johnson,  Na- 
poleon, Disraeli,  Keats,  many  others;  none  of  these 
was  shut  up  in  a  commercial  school  at  eight  years  of 
age  and  bound  in  by  an  iron  system  through  which 
he  must  break  with  invincible  determination  to  find 
the  interests  he  had  taken  for  his  own. 

Yet  he  was  no  model  boy  and  teacher's  pet,  he  was 
no  cad  boy  digging  tirelessly  at  the  dry  roots  of  school- 
tasks  to  be  patted  upon  the  head  by  clergymen  and 
shown  to  admiring  visitors.  There  was  nothing 
flaccid  about  Thomas  Chatterton.  He  was  a  flesh 
and  blood  boy,  able  to  laugh  as  well  as  to  weep, 
having  boy  chums  in  the  dormitory,  hating  some, 
at  least,  of  his  teachers  with  great  heartiness,  and  see- 
ing quite  through  the  others  as  keen-witted,  normal 
boys  often  do;  liked  among  his  comrades,  positive 
and  successful  enough  to  excite  some  envy,  likely  to 
break  over  the  discipline  when  he  saw  fit  and  able  at 
all  times  to  take  care  of  himself.  A  manly  boy,  still 
much  preferring  solitude  and  often  afflicted  with  fits 
of  depression;  a  boy  with  two  sides  to  his  nature  as 
other  boys  have  had  and  survived,  sometimes  exceed- 


34  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

ingly  sad  and  lonely  and  sometimes  bright  and  a 
genial  companion,  but  always  self-possessed  and 
sure  of  himself. 

But  while  with  unchanged  dreams  he  held  his 
way  at  Colston's,  two  influences  he  encountered 
there  wholly  changed  the  current  of  his  life.  The 
first  of  these  had  relation  to  his  brooding  melan- 
choly. While  he  had  good  enough  friends  among 
the  boys,  one  Baker  of  whom  we  shall  hear  further, 
and  others,  he  was  really  intimate  with  none  among 
them.  The  one  friend  in  the  place  that  he  cared 
for  was  Thomas  Phillips,  who  was  not  a  pupil  at 
all  but  an  usher  or  assistant  teacher.  This  must 
have  been  a  rather  remarkable  young  man.  He 
studied  literature,  he  wrote  verses  (whether  ill  or 
well  the  world  will  never  know), he  had  an  enthusiasm 
for  self-culture,  and  with  an  unusual  generosity  he 
strove  to  inspire  in  his  young  charges  the  love  of 
these  intellectual  pleasures;  a  gratuitous  kindness 
remarkable  in  a  place  wholly  given  up  to  the  Boun- 
derby  theory  of  education.  In  one  of  his  pupils  his 
ministrations  awoke  an  instantly  responsive  chord. 
From  the  time  Thomas  Phillips  taught  Chatterton 
to  make  verses  the  boy's  intervals  of  gloomy  depres- 
sion returned  no  more.  The  soul  within  had  lacked 
the  saving  grace  of  expression;  it  was  for  expression 
that  unconsciously  he  had  been  tearing  his  heart 
and  beating  the  bars.  With  expression  he  found 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  35 

the  secret  of  something  like  peace  and  he  turned  to 
verse-making  as  a  tired  man  comes  home.  The  way 
along  which  Phillips  started  him  was  at  the  first  a 
beaten  track;  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  made 
his  own  path  and  that  through  untried  fields. 

The  usher  was  a  gentle  youth  and  the  boy  loved 
and  esteemed  him,  but  even  with  Phillips  he  had 
no  close  confidences.  Of  the  Grand  Romance  he 
revealed  nothing,  he  would  not  tell  even  this  good 
friend  anything  about  his  inner  life  with  Canynge 
and  Rowley  and  the  nights  at  the  Red  Lodge.  Grad- 
ually in  his  dreamings  and  wanderings  the  drama 
had  taken  shape  and  daily  lived  and  moved  before 
him.  Somewhere  in  his  interminable  studies  and 
searchings  he  had  come  upon  Thomas  Rowley. 
What  he  really  knew  of  this  mysterious  figure,  for 
how  much  of  the  eventual  creation  he  found  warrant 
or  suggestion,  we  shall  never  divine.  But  in  the 
Grand  Romance  Rowley  became  the  hero. 

It  was  the  oddest  hero-making  that  ever  entered 
a  boy's  mind.  It  made  Rowley  not  a  knight,  a 
warrior,  nor  a  performer  of  daring  deeds,  but  a 
studious  and  gentle  monk  of  St.  John's  Church. 
According  to  the  romance,  he  and  William  Canynge 
had  been  schoolmates  and  had  then  cemented  an 
ideal  friendship  that  lasted  through  their  lives.  When 
Canynge  became  rich  he  was  able  to  gratify  his  taste 
for  learning  and  the  arts,  and  Rowley  was  his  con- 


36  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

stant  companion  in  such  lofty  pursuits.  They  drew 
to  Red  Lodge  the  best  scholars  of  their  region,  all 
the  wits,  the  poets,  the  writers.  Canynge  sent 
Rowley  to  the  monasteries  to  collect  ancient  manu- 
scripts, drawings,  and  choice  specimens  of  the  works 
of  early  artists.  Many  of  the  manuscripts  were  in 
the  Saxon  tongue,  and  these  Rowley,  who  was  a  very 
learned  man,  translated  for  his  wealthy  patron.  He 
was  an  antiquarian  also;  he  wrote  profound  treatises 
on  the  customs  and  literature  of  earlier  times.  As 
the  boy's  mind  waxed  apace  and  he  himself  found  the 
long-sought  vent  for  his  creative  energies,  Rowley 
became  a  poet  and  a  dramatist,  urged  thereto  by  the 
benevolent  encouragement  of  his  friend.  He  wrote 
poems  of  his  own  and  he  gathered  and  translated 
the  poems  of  others,  and  in  all  he  was  supported  and 
richly  rewarded  by  Canynge. 

There  were  other  persons  in  the  drama.  To 
the  feasts  of  soul  at  the  Red  Lodge  came  John 
Carpenter,  afterward  Bishop  of  Winchester;  John 
Iscamm,  another  priest;  Sir  Thybbot  Gorges,1  a 
nobleman  of  the  neighborhood,  and  others,  and 
their  sessions  must  have  been  pleasant  affairs,  for 
all  these  could  sound  the  lyre  on  occasion  and  were 
interested  in  literature  and  art.  Of  these  gatherings 

1  Sir  Theobold  Gorges  was  a  veritable  character  in  Canynge's  time  and  lived 
at  Wraxhall,  near  Bristol.  He  is  mentioned  in  a  deed  of  Canynge 's  to  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe  Church,  and  it  was  in  this  document  that  Chatterton  must  have  en- 
countered his  name. 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  37 

Canynge  and  Rowley  were  the  inspiring  forces. 
Canynge  often  suggested  subjects  for  Rowley's  pen; 
in  return  the  poet  celebrated  the  goodness  and 
benefactions  of  his  illustrious  patron;  the  relations 
between  them  were  not  the  formal  relations  of  priest 
and  parishioner,  but  of  two  very  dear  and  congenial 
friends. 

This  is  an  outline  of  the  story  as  Chatterton 
created  it.  To  this  framework  he  constantly  added 
details.  The  consistence  of  the  narrative  was  re- 
markable; it  stretched  over  six  or  seven  years  of  his 
life,  and  its  developments  at  different  periods  all 
cohered  with  the  outline.  No  doubt  the  dream  so 
filled  his  lonely  hours  that  it  ceased  to  be  a  dream. 
All  the  characters  in  it  and  all  their  deeds  and  ways 
and  sayings  he  came  to  know  as  well  as  he  knew  the 
deeds  and  ways  of  the  people  about  him.  He  had 
odd  little  traits  to  tell  of  them,  the  things  one  accumu- 
lates from  intimate  observation.  His  real  life  was 
spent  in  their  companionship;  they  were  the  ever- 
ready  refuge  from  the  world  of  boy-beaters  and  gross- 
minded  persons  that  had  no  concern  above  profits. 
He  mused  and  pondered  over  it,  and  into  that  region 
withdrew  to  dwell  alone. 

Perhaps  his  reticence  with  Phillips  was  because  he 
perceived  that  his  friend  was  wholly  modern  and 
conventional  in  his  tastes;  perhaps  it  was  because  the 
other  influence  I  have  yet  to  tell  of,  as  lamentable  as 


38  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Phillips's  was  beneficent,  grew  then  upon  him.  We 
are  far  yet  from  understanding  any  part  of  the 
subtle  chemistries  by  which  the  environment  out 
of  tune  and  harsh  affects  some  temperaments. 
Colston's,  an  excellent  school  for  salesmen,  was 
perdition  for  a  poet.  The  first  plunge  into  the  com- 
mercial spring  struck  a  chill  of  abhorrence  to  the 
boy's  very  soul.  He  saw  at  once  how  little  advan- 
tage lay  there  for  him.  With  infinite  joy  he  had 
hailed  the  idea  of  going  to  school,  because  he  thought 
he  should  have  unlimited  opportunity  to  learn;  but 
on  an  early  holiday,  when  he  was  visiting  home  and 
his  mother  asked  him  about  his  prospects,  he  summed 
the  whole  situation  in  a  word.  "I  could  learn  more 
at  home,"  he  said  quietly,  "they  have  not  enough 
books  there  to  teach  me."  It  was  even  so  and  worse 
than  he  knew.  The  daily  forced  grinding  of  matter 
not  merely  uninteresting  but  utterly  repellent  and 
mentally  indigestible  was  poisonous  to  him;  the 
daily  observation  of  the  principles  of  business,  the 
daily  life  in  the  atmosphere  of  gain,  while  it  sharp- 
ened his  wits  and  opened  to  him  something  of  the 
nature  of  mankind,  slowly  induced  a  cynical  and 
coldly  humorous  habit  of  mind  directly  at  war  with 
his  finer  spirit. 

As  happens  sometimes  in  cases  of  powerful  intel- 
lect, two  men  grew  up  within  him.  On  one  side  he 
was  dreamy,  affectionate,  absorbed  in  romantic 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES  39 

speculation,  a  citizen  of  airy  cloud-land;  on  the 
other  side  a  reasoning  observer  of  his  fellow  men, 
disillusioned  and  skeptical.  He  learned  early  to 
look  quite  through  the  deeds  of  men,  to  weigh  causes 
and  motives,  to  distrust  others  and  to  draw  farther 
within  himself.  Most  ill  things  have  some  use. 
From  this  acquired  cynicism  he  speedily  learned  to 
accept  nothing  for  granted,  to  despise  all  conven- 
tional dogma  and  to  reject  as  childish  and  absurd 
the  surviving  relics  of  feudalism.  It  is  odd  that 
one  whose  artistic  sympathies  were  wholly  medieval 
should  on  his  active  side  go  so  far  in  advance  of  his 
age.  If  we  are  to  cling  to  the  theory  that  the  normal 
man  must  be  all  of  a  piece,  all  progressive  or  all 
reactionary,  all  artist  or  all  politician,  we  shall  never 
solve  this  puzzle.  The  truth  is  that  while  he  toiled 
at  the  tasks  of  Colston's  the  dreamer  of  Rowley 
slept  and  the  other  Chatterton  looked  about  him 
with  cynical  disfavor;  released  from  the  bench  and 
the  chains  the  dreamer  sprang  up  to  life,  the  galley- 
oarsman  was  forgotten. 


Ill 

THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS 

THE  galley-slave  labored  with  exactitude  and 
full,  however  reluctant,  service,  and  the  activities 
of  the  other  nature  were  inexhaustible.  We  have 
no  record  of  another  mind  more  insatiable  of  effort. 
The  regimen  at  Colston's  left  him  little  time  for  any 
other  employment  than  his  studies,  and  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind  that  his  attention  to  his  mother  and 
sister  never  slackened.  Yet  here  are  some  of  the 
things  he  found  time  to  do:  he  studied  heraldry  until 
he  made  himself  an  expert  in  the  intricate  science, 
until  probably  no  man  in  England  knew  more  of  it  or 
had  readier  or  more  understanding  command  of  its 
terms;  he  wrote  much  poetry  and  some  prose;  he 
dug  deep  into  the  legends  as  well  as  the  actual  his- 
tory of  Bristol;  he  studied  the  works  of  standard 
English  poets  and  stored  his  memory  with  tales, 
scenes,  songs,  and  lines  from  them;  he  read  in  his- 
tory, theology,  medicine  and  what  science  was  then 
available  to  the  average  investigator;  gathered  a 
good  working  knowledge  of  ancient  arms  and  armor, 
of  medieval  life  and  manners,  of  old  English  bal- 
lads; studied  the  forms  and  shapes  of  early  English 

40 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  41 

text;  mastered  the  quaint  penmanship  of  old  parch- 
ments; learned  much  about  music  and  something 
about  drawing;  read  the  newspapers;  kept  in  the 
current  of  events;  formed  acquaintances  outside  the 
school  (all  adults);  borrowed  and  read  their  books 
and  controverted  their  opinions.  I  shall  not  pre- 
tend to  say  how  in  a  school  where  the  sessions  began 
at  seven  in  the  morning  and  lasted  until  five  in  the 
afternoon,  and  every  boy  must  be  in  bed  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  these  achievements  were  pos- 
sible, but  there  is  the  record;  he  did  all  these  things. 
He  had,  to  be  sure,  a  mind  that  seemed  to  hunger 
and  thirst  after  labor,  a  mind  intolerant  of  repose; 
but  such  a  mind  highly  developed  in  a  grown  man 
could  hardly  perform  these  prodigies,  and  this  was 
a  boy  passing  from  his  eighth  to  his  sixteenth  year. 

Colston's  occupied  a  large  and  rather  sightly 
building  at  the  beginning  of  what  is  called  St.  Augus- 
tine's Back,  a  rise  of  land  from  the  harbor,  a  branch 
of  the  Avon,  to  the  College  Green  where  the  Cathe- 
dral stands.  The  harbor  was  in  front,  lengthwise, 
and  in  the  perspective  for  many  rods;  at  Colston's 
end  was  the  old  Drawbridge;  along  the  water  much 
shipping.  The  town  was  close  about,  mostly  in 
front  and  towards  the  east  or  on  the  right  of  one 
facing  as  Colston's  faced.  In  that  direction  was  the 
fashionable  Queen's  Square,  adorned  in  the  center 
with  a  frightful  equestrian  statue  of  William  III, 


42  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  one  discordant  note  in  the  antique  harmony  of 
the  town,  and  near  this  square  was  the  City  Library, 
presently  the  object  of  the  boy's  particular  attention, 
for  the  dearest  quest  of  his  life  was  books,  books, 
always  books.  Where  there  are  now  thousands  of 
books  were  not  then  scores.  With  extraordinary 
stupidity  access  to  the  few  libraries  was  made  as 
difficult  as  possible;  it  was  thought  well  that  those 
that  God  had  ordained  to  a  lowly  walk  of  life 
should  not  have  too  much  opportunity  to  become 
learned,  perhaps  lest  they  should  be  restless  under 
the  divine  decree,  perhaps  with  a  reasonable  fear 
that  they  might  speedily  outstrip  their  betters.  A 
few  persons  of  means  gathered  about  them  small 
collections  of  precious  volumes  and  to  such  persons 
in  Bristol  the  boy  was  irresistibly  attracted. 

One  of  these  was  destined  to  exert  upon  all  the 
rest  of  his  life  a  malignant  influence.  Very  close  to 
Colston's  on  St.  Augustine's  Back  was  then  dwelling 
William  Barrett,  a  surgeon  of  considerable  note  in 
Bristol  and  possessed  of  some  vestiges  of  taste  for 
literature  and  antiquities.  He  was  then  and  had 
been  for  years  engaged  in  a  task  that  is  one  of  the 
monuments  of  wasted  human  industry.  With  in- 
conceivable pains  and  labor  he  was  writing  a  huge 
history  of  Bristol,  a  work  so  full  of  errors  and  inac- 
curacies that  it  is  worthless  as  anything  but  a  curiosity. 
He  was  a  cold,  calculating  person,  of  somewhat 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  43 

slender  intellect  and  r/iuch  centered  in  himself  and 
his  great  project,  but  the  owner  of  a  small  library. 
The  boy  seemed  to  scent  books  as  bees  scent  honey; 
in  some  way  he  managed  to  make  the  surgeon's 
acquaintance  and  eventually  to  extract  books  from 
him.  After  a  time,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  Barrett 
chose  to  encourage  the  boy's  visits  and  the  two 
became  frequent  companions. 

The  chief  recourse  of  those  that  had  no  books  of 
their  own  nor  admission  to  the  few  collections  mis- 
called "public"  was  then  to  such  of  the  booksellers 
as  maintained  circulating  libraries.  Bristol  had  some 
of  these;  poor  enough,  no  doubt,  but  still  contain- 
ing books,  books,  the  books  for  which  the  poor  soul 
strove  like  one  fighting  for  air  in  a  dungeon.  He 
had  a  small  allowance  of  pocket-money,  a  few  pennies 
weekly,  and  as  a  rule  these  went  straight  to  the  cir- 
culating libraries.  Not  always,  for  he  had  one  other 
extravagance,  and  though  it  arose  from  the  strongest 
trait  in  his  character,  it  has  been  overlooked  by  most 
of  his  biographers.  It  is  quite  true  that  this  boy 
that  has  been  so  bitterly  assailed  had  one  wasteful 
habit.  The  Drawbridge  in  front  of  Colston's  was 
often  thronged  with  beggars  and  whenever  he  passed 
he  emptied  his  pockets  among  them.  Even  if  he 
had  started  to  the  circulating  library  to  get  some  of  his 
beloved  books,  at  the  sight  of  a  beggar  he  surrendered 
his  last  penny  and  sacrificed  his  dearest  joy.  He  was 


44 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


himself  almost  as  poor  as  any  other  person  in  Bristol, 
he  was  himself  on  the  sharp  edge  of  utmost  penury, 
and  he  gave  everything  he  had,  everything  even  to 
his  books.  A  kinder  heart  never  beat;  at  any  sight 
of  distress  he  ran  with  tears  and  cries  of  tenderness 
to  the  help.  His  mother  had  a  friend,  a  Mrs.  Edkins, 
who  had  been  in  her  girlhood  a  pupil  of  the  elder 
Chatterton's,  a  warm-hearted,  gentle  and  simple  soul, 
to  whom  all  the  Chattertons  were  dear.  She  was 
fond  of  walking  and  talking  with  Thomas,  albeit 
she  probably  understood  little  of  his  sayings.  Though 
poor  enough  herself,  being  of  the  same  humble  class 
to  which  the  boy  belonged,  she  sometimes  had  a 
little  money.  Often  when  they  were  abroad  to- 
gether, and  he  had  given  all  his  own  pennies  to  some 
cripple,  he  would  beg  her  to  further  his  charities. 
"  If  you  give  to  the  cripple  you  are  giving  to  me," 
he  told  her.  When  she  had  intended  to  round 
their  excursion  with  a  treat  of  gingerbread  or  some 
such  rare  delicacy,  she  found  herself  with  empty 
pocket.  Chatterton  had  insisted  that  she  should  give 
all  to  the  beggars.  The  moralists  have  dwelt  much 
upon  the  fact  that  to  an  arrogant  pewterer  this  boy 
gave  a  fictitious  heraldry.  They  have  not  mentioned 
the  other  fact  that,  underfed  and  poor  and  joyless 
himself,  he  gave  bread  to  the  starving.  Charity  seems 
to  cover  all  sins  but  those  of  the  Literary  Forger. 
I  have  no  idea  how  much  his  little  philanthropies 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  45 

and  the  kindness  of  his  youn'g  heart  were  known,  but 
possibly  they  had  been  observed  by  one  man  in 
Bristol  of  whom,  I  should  say,  we  have  too  little 
information.  One  of  the  circulating  libraries  in 
Bristol  was  kept  by  a  bookseller  named  Goodal, 
near  a  place  with  the  euphonious  name  of  the  Cider 
House  Passage.  To  this  shop  Chatterton  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor.  Sometimes,  after  he  had  shared  his 
book-money  with  his  friends  the  beggars,  he  would 
still  stroll  on  to  Goodal's  shop  to  feast  his  eyes  on 
the  books  now  beyond  his  reach,  and  Goodal 
would  take  pity  on  him  and  put  a  book  under  his 
arm  and  tell  him  to  run  home  and  not  to  mind  about 
the  fee  if  he  did  not  have  it.  In  this  bitter  story  of 
cruelty  and  neglect  you  will  find  few  instances  where 
anybody  was  kind  to  this  boy.  Perhaps  it  is  well 
to  make  the  most  of  those  you  do  find. 

Other  persons  than  the  bookseller  might  have 
thought  him  worth  attention  and  for  other  reasons 
than  his  compassionate  ways.  For  his  fine  face,  for 
one;  and  then  the  peculiar  uniform  of  Colston's 
school  notably  became  him,  the  dark  blue  coat,  long 
and  full-skirted,  the  dark  blue  knee-breeches,  yellow 
silk  stockings,  low  shoes  with  buckles,  round  flat 
blue  hat  with  a  gathered  brim.  You  may  see  boys 
in  the  like  garb  threading  the  streets  of  Bristol  now,1 

1  St.  Elizabeth's  Hospital  boys.  The  costume  is  almost  identical  with  the  old- 
time  Colston  uniform. 


46  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  if  you  do  you  will  turn  to  look  at  them.  And 
this  boy  had  that  manly  bearing  and  quiet  easy  ad- 
dress that  is  rare  in  boys  and  immensely  engaging 
when  you  do  find  it.  He  had  no  shyness;  his  manner 
towards  his  elders  was  always  as  of  one  at  ease  and 
confident.  Some  persons  are  without  the  observing 
faculty  and  cannot  tell  five  minutes  afterward  whether 
one  that  has  spoken  to  them  was  commonplace  or 
extraordinary;  but  wherever  was  a  ready  understand- 
ing Thomas  Chatterton  was  noted  and  wondered 
over,  particularly  for  those  strange  eyes  of  his. 
Some  of  his  acquaintances,  the  surgeon  Barrett  for 
one,  used  to  find  entertainment  in  arousing  his  anger 
to  see  his  eyes  burn,  a  witless  device  that  seems  a 
kind  of  grown-up  edition  of  the  infant  and  the  watch. 
When  he  was  aroused  the  gray  eyes  sparkled  and 
glowed  and  seemed  to  take  fire  from  within. 

His  Saturday  half-holidays  from  twelve  to  seven 
he  spent  at  his  mother's  house;  at  seven  the  doors 
of  Colston's  closed  upon  him.  In  these  hours  at 
home  he  was  often  busy  in  the  garret,  which  he  had 
erected  into  a  study  and  workshop.  There  he  took 
his  books  and  some  other  things.  He  kept  this  den 
locked,  carried  the  key  himself  and  would  allow  no 
intrusion  upon  his  privacy.  His  business  in  life  was 
to  work.  He  had  made  for  himself  certain  wise 
adages  with  which  he  regaled  his  mother  when  that 
good  woman  attempted  to  remonstrate  with  him 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  47 

about  his  abnormal  habits  of  study  and  his  unboyish 
disregard  of  the  dinner  hour.  One  was  that  "God 
had  sent  his  creatures  into  the  world  with  arms  long 
enough  to  reach  anything  if  they  chose  to  be  at  the 
trouble."  Another  about  eating  animal  food  was  that 
he  had  a  work  to  do  and  must  not  make  himself  duller 
than  God  had  made  him.  The  poor  woman,  like 
King  Claudius,  could  make  nothing  of  these  answers; 
the  words  were  not  hers.  The  boy  was  so  affectionate 
and  kindly  that  she  could  think  no  ill  of  him,  but  his 
way  of  life  was  beyond  her  conception  and  her  gossips'. 
Later  in  life  Chatterton  became  an  undisguised 
skeptic  as  to  all  revealed  religion,  but  in  his  early 
years  he  was  rather  devout.  He  was  confirmed  when 
he  was  ten  years  old,  and  the  ceremony  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  a  mind  susceptible  to  all  things 
beautiful  and  interested  in  all  things  ritualistic.  He 
went  home  from  the  church  to  talk  to  his  sister  about 
it  and  tell  her  the  thoughts  it  aroused  in  him.  While 
the  mood  remained  he  wrote  the  earliest  of  his  poems 
of  which  we  have  knowledge,  for  one  of  the  deplor- 
able as  well  as  the  strange  features  of  this  story  is 
that  so  many  of  its  memorials  were  allowed  to  perish. 
Probably  he  had  written  many  poems  before  this,  as 
certainly  he  wrote  many  after  it,  that  have  vanished 
from  the  eyes  of  man.  He  was  ten  years  old,  Novem- 
ber 20,  1762,  and  on  January  8,  1763,  this  poem 
of  his  appeared  in  Felix  Farley's  Bristol  Journal: 


48  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

ON  THE  LAST  EPIPHANY,  OR  CHRIST  COMING  TO 
JUDGMENT 

Behold!  just  coming  from  above, 
The  judge,  with  majesty  and  love! 
The  sky  divides,  and  rolls  away,  . 

T'admit  Him  through  the  realms  of  day! 
The  sun,  astonished,  hides  its  face, 
The  moon  and  stars  with  wonder  gaze 
At  Jesu's  bright  superior  rays! 
Dread  lightnings  flash,  and  thunders  roar, 
And  shake  the  earth  and  briny  shore; 
The  trumpet  sounds  at  heaven's  command, 
And  pierceth  through  the  sea  and  land; 
The  dead  in  each  now  hear  the  voice, 
The  sinners  fear  and  saints  rejoice; 
For  now  the  awful  hour  is  come, 
When  every  tenant  of  the  tomb 
Must  rise,  and  take  his  everlasting  doom. 

His  next  poem  of  which  we  have  record,  "A  Hymn 
for  Christmas  Day,"  written  in  the  same  year,  1763, 
is  an  amazing  composition  for  a  boy  ten  or  eleven 
years  old,  showing  thought  and  command  of  expres- 
sion, and  what  is  more  significant,  the  sense  of  music. 
It  begins: 

Almighty  Framer  of  the  Skies! 
O  let  our  pure  devotion  rise, 

Like  incense  in  Thy  sight! 
Wrapt  in  impenetrable  shade 
The  texture  of  our  souls  was  made 

Till  Thy  command  gave  light. 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  49 

The  sun  of  glory  gleamed,  the  ray 
Refined  the  darkness  into  day, 

And  bid  the  vapors  fly: 
Impelled  by  His  eternal  love, 
He  left  His  palaces  above 

To  cheer  our  gloomy  sky,  etc. 

It  is  strange  that  a  boy  of  such  habitual  gravity  of 
thought  should  have  also  been  the  possessor  of  an 
exquisite  sense  of  humor  and  a  light  touch  on  comic 
fancy.  Not  long  after  his  religious  hymns  appeared 
he  tried  his  hand  at  humorous  verse,  with  other 
things,  and  produced  the  beginning  of  a  witty  story 
called  "Sly  Dick,"  a  tale  of  a  thief  in  which,  if  it  had 
been  completed,  he  probably  purposed  some  satire. 
The  next  of  his  preserved  writings  is  "Apostate  Will," 
written  when  he  was  eleven  years  and  five  months  old. 
The  subject  is  a  man  that  had  turned  to  Methodism 
and  back  to  the  Established  Church  as  advantage 
dictated,  a  theme  that  suited  the  boy's  bent  of  mind 
for  he  had  then  traveled  some  distance  towards 
skepticism.  Thus  the  verses  begin: 

In  days  of  old,  when  Wesley's  power 
Gathered  new  strength  by  every  hour; 
Apostate  Will,  just  sunk  in  trade, 
Resolved  his  bargain  should  be  made; 
Then  straight  to  Wesley  he  repairs, 
And  puts  on  grave  and  solemn  airs,  etc. 


50  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

I  quote  a  little  of  it  merely  to  show  the  lad's  pecu- 
liar ease  in  versification  and  some  of  the  effects  that 
Colston's  had  already  wrought  upon  him,  a  contempt 
for  "trade,"  for  instance.  It  has  been  generally 
overlooked  that  the  influence  of  the  school  was 
doubtless  responsible  for  his  earliest  distaste  for 
religion.  Among  the  iron-bound  rules  of  the  insti- 
tution were  severe  requirements  about  worship. 
Colston  had  been  not  less  than  a  fanatic  on  the  sub- 
ject; not  only  was  his  school  to  be  conducted  by  men 
of  the  extremest  type  of  his  own  faith,  but  no  boy 
could  be  admitted  that  was  tainted  anywhere  with 
the  breath  of  abhorred  dissent,  and  minute  instruc- 
tions were  left  as  to  the  kind  and  quantity  of  re- 
ligious faith  to  be  inculcated.  Chatterton  had  much 
of  the  rebel  in  him;  he  revolted  at  the  idea  of  being 
taken  by  the  throat  and  crammed  with  dogma,  and 
naturally  he  sprang  away  to  the  other  extreme. 

The  origin  of  one  of  his  poems  of  this  period 
shows  how  keenly  he  observed  current  events  and 
how  sharp  were  the  powers  of  sarcasm  at  his  com- 
mand. One  Joseph  Thomas,  a  brickmaker,  was 
then  churchwarden  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe.  In  an 
inspiration  of  what  was  regarded  as  excessive  thrift 
he  ordered  that  the  ground  in  the  churchyard  should 
be  leveled  off,  the  grave  mounds  cut  down,  and  the 
resulting  debris  carted  off,  to  his  works  (as  Bristol 
believed)  to  be  made  into  bricks.  The  towns- 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  51 

people  were  not  unduly  sensitive;  they  had  allowed 
the  Dean  of  the  Cathedral  to  demolish  the  old  High 
Cross  in  College  Green,  a  beautiful  relic  of  antiquity; 
but  about  the  sordid  meanness  of  the  churchwarden's 
performance  there  was  something  that  stung.  An 
outcry  was  made,  people  protested,  the  outraged 
feelings  found  vent  in  the  Englishman's  ready  resort, 
the  agony  column  of  his  nearest  newspaper.  Bristol 
had  not  in  years  been  so  moved.  Thomas,  a  head- 
strong man,  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  purpose 
and  the  work  went  on  to  the  scandal  and  wrath  of 
the  town.  In  the  midst  of  the  discussion  this  boy 
of  the  charity  school  sprang  to  the  front  with  a  string 
of  satirical  verses,  fiercely  assailing  and  lampooning 
Thomas  and  turning  upon  him  a  bitter  irony  by 
representing  him,  extravagantly,  no  doubt,  as  tor- 
tured by  conscience.  In  his  mania  for  destruction, 
the  churchwarden,  following  the  vile  example  of  the 
Dean,  had  ordered  a  cross  in  the  churchyard  to  be 
removed,  a  merely  wanton  vandalism  that  had  aug- 
mented his  other  offenses,  and  the  verses  picture 
him  dreaming  and  gloating  over  this  sacrilege  when 
the  apparition  of  conscience  appears  to  torment 
him.  Under  the  title  of  "The  Churchwarden  and 
the  Apparition,"  these  verses  were  printed  in  Felix 
Farley's  Bristol  Journal,  January  7,  1764,  Chat- 
terton  then  being  twelve  years  old.  Like  all  his 
early  work  they  were  printed  anonymously,  and  no 


52  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

one  in  Bristol  would  have  been  more  astonished 
than  the  editor  of  that  fashionable  periodical  to  find 
that  their  author  was  a  little  Colston's  boy.  In  the 
same  newspaper  appeared  a  prose  philippic  on  the 
same  subject,  and  a  certain  peculiar  note  of  biting 
satire  as  well  as  other  internal  evidence  identifies 
this  also  as  Chatterton's  work.  No  one  else  felt 
so  keenly  about  the  desecration.  The  churchwarden 
struck  at  his  very  heart  when  he  touched  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe. 

It  was  so  about  all  things  great  or  small  connected 
with  that  dear  home  of  his  dreams,  and  presently 
one  of  those  trifling  incidents  that  turn  the  currents 
of  life  arose  from  this  feeling  to  the  shaping  of  a  new 
activity  and  one  destined  to  cause  him  infinite  in- 
jury before  the  unthinking.  At  Colston's  the  parch- 
ments from  the  old  Muniment  Room  had  long  passed 
from  his  mind;  but  being  at  home  one  Saturday  after- 
noon he  saw  his  mother  winding  thread  upon  an 
odd-looking  slip  of  paper  and  asked  about  it.  The 
answer  recalled  the  whole  story  of  Canynge's  Coffer, 
the  abstracted  parchments  and  the  handy  book- 
covers.  He  hesitated  not  to  denounce  his  father's 
action  as  sacrilegious  and  to  declare  that  nothing  old 
and  from  the  church  should  be  put  to  base  uses. 
Thereupon  he  desired  to  see  more  of  the  parchments, 
and  finding  them  covered  with  ancient  writing  fell 
to  studying  them.  In  the  end  he  gathered  all  that 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  53 

were  left  in  the  house,  locked  them  in  his  garret  den 
and  gave  orders  concerning  them  in  the  manner  be- 
fitting a  young  gentleman  of  twelve  that  was  head 
of  a  household.  Before  this  he  had  often  been  busy 
of  a  Saturday  afternoon  with  his  drawings  and  color- 
ings. He  had  a  great  lump  of  ocher,  some  lamp- 
black and  some  lead-powder,  and  with  these  he 
worked  away,  drawing  armorial  bearings  and  other 
devices  and  coloring  them  after  his  fancy,  for  he 
had  a  natural  taste  for  design.  From  these  employ- 
ments he  emerged  grimy  with  lampblack  and  stained 
with  ocher,  but  happy.  Sometimes  he  was  so  much 
absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  resolutely  declined  to 
come  down  to  supper  and  trudged  away  back  to 
Colston's  that  night,  hungry  but  contented.  Once 
he  found  that  having  left  out  of  his  room  his  precious 
bottle  of  lead-powder,  the  stuff  had  been  used  to 
polish  a  stove,  and  at  that  he  flew  into  a  violent  rage, 
for  it  was  attacking  him  on  two  sides,  his  slender 
means  and  his  respect  for  his  art.  Mainly  he  drew 
designs  for  imaginary  castles,  ancient  bridges  and 
medieval  costumes,  coloring  them;  but  some  time 
after  the  incident  about  the  parchments  he  became 
busier  than  ever  with  his  pigments  and  in  other 
ways. 

He  was  busier  also  with  his  pen  and  more  absorbed 
in  his  dreams;  he  had  far  greater  things  in  mind  now 
than  "Apostate  Will"  and  "The  Churchwarden," 


54  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

he  had  things  to  which  all  he  had  done  was  nothing; 
he  had  the  expression  and  artistic  flowering  of  his 
passionate  love  for  the  past  wherein  he  truly  dwelt, 
the  expression  of  Canynge,  Rowley,  and  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe,  his  inseparable  companions  of  old  time. 
Within  him  the  Grand  Romance  was  taking  artistic 
shape,  as  slowly  he  forged  its  eventual  form. 

It  was  inevitable  that  such  a  spirit,  so  utterly  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  story,  living  in  it  and  brooding  upon 
it,  should  some  day  leave  a  record  of  it.  Probably 
he  had  little  volition  in  the  matter;  the  artist  can 
hardly  choose,  and  this  was  the  high  aspiring  and 
burning  soul  of  an  artist.  With  all  the  relics  of 
Canynge  about  him,  with  the  church,  the  effigies, 
the  legends  that  pertained  to  the  sexton's  office,  the 
remnant  of  the  Red  Lodge,  the  spire  of  St.  John's 
Church,  with  these  insistent  reminders  of  truth  and 
fiction,  feigned  images  that  had  been  the  companions 
of  his  childhood  grew  upon  him  as  verities,  and  their 
deeds  took  on  additional  substance.  By  so  much  as 
the  Bristol  of  his  own  day  seemed  sordid  and  mean,  by 
so  much  as  the  school  he  loathed  was  narrow  and 
dull,  the  contrast  of  this  imaginary  life  in  a  golden 
age  and  the  contrast  of  its  warm  and  pleasing  figures 
laid  the  stronger  hold  upon  his  imagination. 

In  his  long  lonely  rambles,  in  his  long  nights  in  the 
dormitory  (for  he  slept  little),  persons  and  events 
and  at  last  the  whole  story  had  been  formulated. 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  55 

And  being  now  deep  in  his  poetic  studies,  feeling  and 
knowing  exultantly  in  every  fiber  that  he  was  a  poet, 
confident  of  his  calling,  expert  in  the  characters  of 
ancient  writing,  a  student  of  heraldry  and  history, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  knew  the  poetry  that  Rowley 
had  made,  and  he  turned  back  to  his  old  authors,  to 
Spenser  and  to  Chaucer  and  to  an  ancient  dictionary, 
to  see  how  the  words  Rowley  had  used  would  look. 
And  having  then  the  spirit  and  being  consumed  by 
the  feeling  of  his  creation,  presently  he  began  to 
carve  exquisite  poetry  that  he  wrote  as  he  thought 
Rowley  might  have  written.  And  upon  such  work, 
forming  on  the  whole  the  most  extraordinary  body 
of  verse  in  our  language,  he  was  then,  at  the  age  of 
twelve  years  or  so,  busily  engaged.  A  hard-driven 
charity  school  boy,  crammed  with  commerce  nine 
hours  a  day,  set  down  in  an  environment  that  was 
abhorrent  to  him,  whipped  by  the  head-master  (a 
blockish  person  named  Warner)  for  wasting  his 
time  in  such  nonsense  as  poetry,  he  was  steadily 
building  the  Rowley  fabric  into  the  shape  that  was 
presently  to  amaze  the  world. 

The  loneliest  soul  that  has  walked  these  ways  of 
ours,  there  was  in  all  the  world  not  one  person  to 
whom  he  could  impart  these  transports.  Sym- 
pathy is  as  much  as  air  a  necessity  of  life.  He  was 
starved  for  the  lack  of  it.  As  a  little  boy  he  had 
been  whipped  for  reading  and  hunted  with  reproaches 


56  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

from  his  dreaming  place  by  Canynge's  tomb.  And 
now  he  had  been  beaten  again  for  practising  his 
elected  art.  His  soul  told  him  that  what  had  been 
called  his  offenses  were  morals;  his  punishments 
had  been  the  irradicable  crimes.  The  world  had 
been  bitter  to  him.  Both  from  experience  and  by 
infallible  instinct  he  understood  what  cold  jeers  and 
rude  jests,  worse  than  blows,  would  beat  upon  him 
at  any  mention  of  his  Rowley  dreams.  He  crept 
away,  as  some  hurt  animals  creep,  into  holes  and 
lonely  corners  and  sjhared  his  rapture  of  creation 
with  Canynge  and  Rowley,  for  these  would  not  laugh 
nor  sneer,  these  had  no  wounds  nor  blows  to  give. 
And  for  all  else  he  was  alone.  There  was  not  one 
soul  to  give  him  counsel  or  help;  if  he  had  been 
the  final  being  on  a  dying  planet  he  could  not  have 
been  a  more  solitary  figure. 

For  what  he  did  next  the  wise  world  has  long  cruci- 
fied him;  it  is  so  easy  to  condemn  for  one  error,  so 
hard  to  remember  that  every  evil  dangles  on  a  long 
chain  of  evil  cause  and  evil  effect.  Was  it  so  great 
a  matter,  and  he  twelve  years  old,  fatherless  and  un- 
friended ?  He  had  sung  with  the  ineffable  joy  of  the 
artist,  soaring  among  the  clouds,  a  companion  of 
stars  and  winds,  songs  that  were  for  him  the  em- 
bodiment of  the  soul  of  his  Rowley  and  of  his  own. 
And  having  done  this,  and  remembering  the  parch- 
ments in  his  mother's  house  and  the  antique  writing, 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  57 

it  occurred  to  him  that  Rowley's  songs  should  have 
a  setting  of  their  own  times.  He  therefore  cleaned 
some  of  the  parchments,  and  in  the  antique  pen- 
manship that  he  had  studied  and  learned  to  imi- 
tate he  copied  some  of  the  poems  thereon. 

It  was  with  these  employments  that  he  was  now 
chiefly  concerned  on  his  half-holidays  in  his  garret 
study.  His  mother's  wonder  grew  upon  her.  Other 
boys  were  not  like  this,  but  played  or  gathered  about 
and  delighted  in  noise.  The  strangeness  of  it 
alarmed  her;  good  soul,  to  be  unusual  was  clearly 
evil,  and  she  set  herself  to  find  out  what  all  this  meant. 
It  was  too  late,  the  boy  had  drawn  too  far  within 
himself.  Once  she  undertook  to  destroy  a  piece 
of  the  parchment,  but  he  raised  so  violent  an  outcry 
that  she  was  affrighted  and  stopped.  Once  he  stood 
upon  a  piece  of  his  work  to  prevent  her  from  taking 
it.  In  the  end  she  gave  up  the  attempt  and  left  him 
to  his  own  devices,  being  doubtless  wise  therein  and 
the  gainer;  for  thereafter  she  and  Mary  knew  more 
than  any  other  person  about  his  work;  and  yet  these, 
you  will  understand,  were  not  confidants  to  advise 
or  guide  him.  They  gained,  in  truth,  but  a  new 
assurance  that  Thomas  was  wonderfully  active  and 
able  and  loved  them  devotedly. 

But  he  did  at  times  exhibit  some  fruits  of  his 
labors.  One  of  the  boys  at  Colston's,  himself 
afterward  a  stumbling  follower  of  the  Muses  and 


58  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

exceedingly  jealous  of  his  fellow-student,  was  James 
Thistlethwaite.  He  likewise,  and  under  the  in- 
spiration of  Phillips,  had  developed  other  interests 
than  the  multiplication  table.  One  day  in  July, 
1764,  a  holiday  it  was,  Thistlethwaite,  going  down 
Horse  Street,  near  the  schoolhouse,  encountered 
Chatterton  going  up.  They  were  not  very  friendly. 
Thistlethwaite  was  a  priggish  sort  of  boy,  with  a 
hard  angular  mind,  and  Chatterton  had  an  antipathy 
to  prigs.  They  stopped  and  talked,  nevertheless, 
and  Chatterton  announced  that  he  had  a  piece  of 
news.  He  had  been  examining  some  old  parch- 
ments taken  from  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  and  had  found 
among  them  an  ancient  poem.  Thistlethwaite  natu- 
rally wished  to  see  it.  Chatterton  said  he  had  given 
it  to  Phillips,  the  usher.  Soon  afterward  Thistle- 
thwaite meets  Phillips,  the  usher,  and  asks  him  about 
this  wonder  of  a  by-gone  age.  Phillips  produces  it 
and  there  it  is,  a  little  piece  of  yellowish  parchment, 
much  stained  as  if  by  age,  and  on  it  some  strange 
old  writing,  very  small  and  dim.  Phillips  has  been 
tracing  the  letters  over  with  his  pen  to  make  them 
clearer.  Bit  by  bit  he  has  made  out  some  words, 
but  others  still  baffle  him.  Thistlethwaite  sits 
down  with  him  and  together  they  labor.  It  is  all  too 
much  for  Thistlethwaite's  poor  head,  but  he  can  see 
it  is  poetry,  although  it  is  written  in  the  manner  of 
prose,  that  is  without  capitals  and  without  division 


THE  RIFT  IN  THE  CLOUDS  59 

into  lines.  What  Phillips  deciphered  stuck  in 
Thistlethwaite's  memory,  and  years  afterward  he 
recognized  the  whole  poem  when  he  saw  it  worked 
out  and  in  print.  It  was  a  kind  of  eclogue  called 
"Elinoure  and  Juga,"  and  this  was  its  first  stanza 
as  it  read  when  it  had  been  recast  into  lines: 

Onne  Ruddeborne  bank  twa  pynynge  Maydens  sate, 
Theire  teares  faste  dryppeynge  to  the  waterre  cleere; 
Echone  bementynge  for  her  absente  mate, 
Who  atte  Seyncte  Albonns  shouke  the  morthynge  speare. 
The  nottebrowne  Elinoure  to  Juga  fayre 
Dydde  speke  acroole,  wythe  languishment  of  eyne, 
Lyche  droppes  of  pearlie  dew  lemed  the  quyvryng  brine,  etc. 

A  little  labor  would  have  made  this  into  excellent 
verse,  as  follows: 

On  Rudborne  bank  two  pining  maidens  sat, 
Their  tears  fast  dripping  to  the  water  clear, 
Each  one  lamenting  for  her  absent  mate, 
Who  at  Saint  Albans  shook  the  murdering  spear. 
The  nutbrowne  Elinor  to  Juga  fair 
Held  crooning  plaint  with  heavy  cast-down  eyne; 
Like  drops  of  pearly  dew  gleamed  the  quivering  brine,  etc. 

But  neither  Phillips  nor  Thistlethwaite  was  con- 
cerned in  the  poetic  significance  of  the  composition, 
and  only  Phillips  cared  about  it  even  as  a  curiosity. 
The  seven  stanzas  of  the  poem  recited  the  alternate 
complaints  of  the  maidens  whose  lovers  were  fighting 


60  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

in   the  War  of  the   Roses,   all   spirited   and   justly 
framed.     Phillips  seems  to  have  made  little  of  it. 

This  was  the  first  glimpse  we  have  of  Chatterton's 
secret  labors  and  indicates  that  he  already  had  his 
romance  well  in  hand  and  had  found  what  seemed 
to  him  from  his  readings  and  from  probability  to  be 
the  language  in  which  Rowley  wrote.  He  was  then 
really  less  than  twelve  years  of  age.  The  world 
cherishes  stories  of  precocious  achievements  by  many 
of  its  accepted  favorites,  by  Pope,  Macaulay,  Keats, 
Bryant,  Shelley;  among  them  all  is  no  fellow  to  this. 


IV 
THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER 

HE  was  almost  seven  years  at  Colston's,  continuing 
vigorously  in  his  self-appointed  tasks,  as  in  those 
imposed  upon  him,  reading  everything  in  the  shape 
of  a  book  he  could  lay  hands  upon  and  observing 
with  a  discerning  eye  and  a  singularly  retentive 
memory  the  ways  of  men  and  tides  of  events.  His 
career  in  the  school  seems  to  have  been  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  teachers,  although  he  had  no  love  for 
the  head-master,  who  had  beaten  him  for  writing 
poetry,  and  none  for  the  institution.  In  July,  1767, 
he  being  tfcen  fourteen  years  and  eight  months  old, 
the  school  authorities  held  him  to  be  sufficiently 
trained  to  be  articled,  and  he  was  accordingly  ap- 
prenticed to  John  Lambert,  a  dry,  formal  lawyer,  of 
Bristol,  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  lawyer's  scrivener. 
Lambert  paid  to  the  trustees  a  premium  often  pounds. 
The  articles  provided  that  he  should  feed,  lodge 
and  clothe  his  apprentice;  Mrs.  Chatterton  was  to 
see  to  her  son's  mending. 

At  Lambert's,  at  first  in  St.  John's  Steps,  and  later 
in  Corn  Street,  in  an  old  house  not  long  ago  demolished, 

61 


62  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Chatterton  took  up  his  quarters,  feeling  somewhat 
aggrieved  because  Lambert's  mother,  old,  exacting, 
and  of  a  mind  to  be  a  domestic  tyrant,  made  him 
eat  in  the  kitchen  and  sleep  with  the  foot-boy.  His 
work  was  of  the  easiest.  He  had  little  to  do  but  to 
keep  the  office  in  order,  to  occupy  it  in  Lambert's 
absence  and  to  copy  precedents.  From  eight  to  ten 
every  evening  was  time  he  had  to  himself.  The 
leisure  his  scanty  employment  gave  him  he  turned 
to  his  studies  and  to  his  poetry.  Of  these  pursuits 
Lambert  heartily  disapproved,  favoring  his  appren- 
tice with  stern  lectures  against  idleness  and  folly 
(of  which  he  conceived  the  writing  of  poetry  to  be  a 
conspicuous  example),  and  once  proceeding  to  even 
more  violent  reproof.  Chatterton  cherished  a  bitter 
resentment  against  Head-master  Warner,  who  had 
beaten  him  for  practising  his  dearest  employments, 
and  having  now  leisure  and  opportunity,  he  wrote 
out  his  candid  opinion  of  his  late  preceptor  and  sent 
it  to  him.  The  literature  of  caustic  abuse  is  prob- 
ably the  poorer  by  the  disappearance  of  this  effusion, 
for  judging  by  the  results  it  must  have  been  of  a 
powerful  and  searching  eloquence.  Chatterton  hav- 
ing abstained  from  signing  his  name  to  the  document, 
Warner,  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  breadth  and 
dignity  of  mind  then  not  uncommon  in  men  of  his 
profession,  set  in  motion  much  ponderous  machinery 
to  discover  his  correspondent;  and  when  by  tracing 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  63 

the  kind  of  paper  used  this  was  found  to  be  a  boy 
not  fifteen  years  of  age,  Lambert  met  the  require- 
ments of  the  crime  by  beating  him  again.  From 
these  beatings  and  repressions  there  came  forth 
finally  a  deception  at  which  many  sage  moralists 
have  been  pleased  to  wonder,  being  apparently  of 
the  belief  that  from  the  thistles  of  tyranny  and  bru- 
tality should  come  the  figs  of  a  sweet  and  child-like 
innocence.  This  boy  was  born  with  an  abnormally 
sensitive  soul,  a  mind  that  soared  above  his  sur- 
roundings, and  with  the  artist's  irrepressible  passion 
for  expression.  But  when  that  passion  struggled  up 
and  took  the  only  shape  possible  for  his  genius,  and 
when  the  aspiring  soul  had  its  own  flowerage  of 
song,  it  earned  only  the  cudgel.  He  was  a  mere  slip 
of  a  lad,  thin  from  long  fasting  and  sleeplessness  (for 
his  way  of  living  was  like  an  anchorite's),  undersized 
and  sensitive,  and  when  the  surging  fire  within  him 
burst  forth,  men  beat  him  for  it.  They  beat  him 
yet.  In  Bristol  the  trouble  was  that  he  wrote  poetry 
and  let  it  be  known;  since  then  he  has  been  con- 
demned because  he  wrote  poetry  and  kept  it  secret. 
Even  the  sympathetic  among  the  commentators 
have  seemed  to  think  that  the  cudgel  should  breed 
candor  and  beatings  inculcate  frankness.  He 
was  a  child,  without  experience,  without  a  close 
friend  or  adviser,  and  it  is  held,  apparently,  that 
the  injustice  he  suffered  and  the  hardships  of  his 


64  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

incongruous  position  he  should  have  borne  with  the 
calm  resignation  of  an  aged  saint. 

He  knew  perfectly  well  in  that  strange  strong 
mind  of  his  that  grown  men  had  no  right  to  beat 
him  for  writing  poetry.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
that  he  was  different  from  the  people  about  him,  that 
he  had  other  ideals  of  life  and  other  aims,  that 
he  knew  more  than  most  adults,  that  his  mental 
processes  were  surer  and  quicker.  He  could  think 
and  most  of  them  could  not.  But  they  had  the 
stronger  physical  force  and  could  beat  him  at  will 
and  make  him  waste  his  precious  hours  in  grinding 
the  sand  of  commercial  arithmetic  and  copying  the 
dull  lawyer's  dull  precedents.  And  they  would  not 
see  that  he  could  do  anything  else,  that  there  was 
in  him  the  fire  of  great  achievement.  From  the 
seeds  of  such  conditions  the  growth  that  came  is 
the  last  that  should  astonish  reasonable  men. 

He  had,  not  long  after  the  incident  of  the  Warner 
letter,  a  chance  to  amuse  himself  at  the  expense  of 
his  tormentors,  and  availed  of  it  in  a  way  quite 
natural  to  the  consciously  superior  mind.  The  prin- 
cipal crossing  in  the  harbor  is  and  has  been  for  cen- 
turies known  as  "  Bristol  Bridge."  When  Chatterton 
was  born  this  was  that  ancient  stone  structure 
having  houses  on  each  side  to  which  I  have  before 
referred.  Age  having  impaired  the  old  bridge  the 
authorities  in  1768  replaced  it.  The  new  bridge 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  65 

was  opened  to  foot  passengers  in  September  and 
completed  two  months  later.  While  the  subject  still 
occupied  the  minds  of  the  citizens,  those  that  read 
Felix  Farley's  Bristol  Journal,  were  astonished  one 
day  to  find  printed  there  what  purported  to  be 
an  authentic  account,  taken  from  an  ancient  manu- 
script, of  the  ceremonies  that  three  hundred  years 
before  had  marked  the  opening  of  the  old  bridge. 
The  account,  which  would  make  about  one  third  of  a 
column  in  a  modern  newspaper,  was  most  circum- 
stantial and  full  of  minute  detail.  It  was  written 
in  what  was  accepted  by  the  scholarship  of  that 
day  as  veritable  old  English. 

"On  Fridaie,"  it  began,  "was  the  time  fixed  for 
passing  the  newe  Brydge:  Aboute  the  time  of 
the  tollynge  the  tenth  Clock,  Master  Greggorie 
Dalbenye  mounted  on  a  Fergreyne  Horse,  enformed 
Master  Mayor  all  thyngs  were  prepared;  whan  two 
Beadils  want  fyrst  streyng  fresh  stre,  next  came  a 
manne  dressed  up  as  follows  —  Hose  of  goatskyn, 
crinepart  outwards,  Doublet  and  Waystcoat  also, 
over  which  a  white  Robe  without  sleeves,  much  like 
an  albe,  but  not  so  lorige,  reeching  but  to  his  Lends :  a 
Girdle  of  Azure  over  his  left  shoulder,  rechde  alsoi 
to  his  Lends  on  the  ryght,  and  doubled  back  to  his 
Left,  bucklyng  with  a  Gouldin  Buckel,  dangled  to 
his  Knee;  thereby  representyng  a  Saxon  Elderman. — 
In  his  hande  he  bare  a  shield,  the  maystrie  of  Gille  a 


66  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Brogton,  who  paincted  the  same,  representyng  Saincte 
Warburgh  crossynge  the  Ford.  Then  a  mickle 
strong  Manne,  in  Armour,  carried  a  huge  anlace; 
after  whom  came  Six  Claryons  and  Six  Minstrels, 
who  sang  the  Song  of  Saincte  Warburgh;  then  came 
Master  Maior,  mounted  on  a  white  Horse,  dight 
with  sable  trappyngs,  wrought  about  by  the  Nunnes 
of  Saincte  Kenna,  with  Gould  and  Silver;  his  Hayr 
brayded  with  Ribbons,  and  a  Chaperon,  with  the 
auntient  arms  of  Brystowe  fastende  on  his  forehead. 
Master  Maior  bare  in  his  Hande  a  gouldin  Rodde, 
and  a  congean  squier  bare  in  his  Hande,  his  Helmet, 
waulking  by  the  Syde  of  the  Horse:  than  came  the 
Eldermen  and  Cittie  Broders  mounted  on  Sable 
Horses,  dyght  with  white  trappyngs  an  Plumes,  and 
scarlet  copes  and  Chapeous,  having  thereon  Sable 
Plumes;  after  them,  the  Preests  and  Freeres,  Parysh, 
Mendicaunt  and  Seculor,  some  syngyng  Saincte 
Warburgh's  song,  others  soundyng  clarions  thereto, 
and  others  some  Citrailles.  In  thilk  manner  reechyng 
the  Brydge,  the  Manne  with  the  Anlace  stode  on  the 
fyrst  Top  of  a  Mound,  yreed  in  the  midst  of  the 
Bridge;  then  want  up  the  Manne  with  the  Sheelde, 
after  him  the  Minstrels  and  Clarions.  And  then 
the  Preestes  and  Freeres,  all  in  white  Albs,  makyng 
a  most  goodlie  Shewe;  the  Maior  and  Eldermen 
standyng  round,  theie  sang,  with  the  sound  of  Clari- 
ons, the  Song  of  Saincte  Baldwyn;  which  beyng  done, 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  67 

the  Manne  on  the  Top  threwe  with  greet  myght 
his  Anlace  into  the  see,  and  the  Clarions  sounded 
an  auntiant  Charge  and  Forloyn:  Then  theie  sang 
againe  the  songe  of  Saincte  Warburgh,  and  proceeded 
up  Chrysts  hill,  to  the  cross,  where  a  Latin  Sermon 
was  preeched  by  Ralph  de  Blundeville.  And  with 
sound  of  Clarion  theie  agayne  went  to  the  Brydge, 
and  there  dined,  spendyng  the  rest  of  the  daie  in 
Sportes  and  Plaies,  the  Freers  of  Saincte  Augustine 
doeyng  the  Plaie  of  the  Knyghtes  of  Bristowe,  and 
makynge  a  great  fire  at  night  on  Kynwulph  Hyll." 

The  intellectual  life  of  Bristol  at  that  day  was  not 
remarkable,  but  there  were  some  persons  sufficiently 
interested  in  antiquities  to  be  aroused  to  curiosity 
by  this  extraordinary  document,  and  inquiries  were 
set  on  foot  to  discover  the  original.  It  appeared 
that  the  publisher  of  the  Journal  held  no  knowl- 
edge of  it,  pursuing  a  pleasing  practise  of  printing 
what  was  sent  to  him  and  asking  no  questions. 
The  signature  to  the  note  that  accompanied  the  ac- 
count was  "Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis,"  which  threw 
no  light  on  the  mystery.  For  some  weeks  the  aroused 
antiquarians  of  Bristol  were  baffled  in  their  search. 
Then  a  slender  youth  entering  the  Journal  office 
with  a  communication  to  be  published  was  recog- 
nized by  some  one  there  as  the  purveyor  of  the 
"Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis"  manuscript  and  was 
detained  and  questioned.  Being  but  a  lad  and  this 


68  THOMAS  CHATTERTON   ' 

being  Bristol,  where,  it  seems,  boys  were  but  trouble- 
some beasts,  his  examiners  went  at  him  hammer 
and  tongs  with  threats  and  stern  aspect.  Where- 
upon the  boy  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  turned  upon 
them  two  blazing  eyes  and  refused  to  utter  a  word 
about  the  manuscript.  A  symptom  of  sense  return- 
ing to  some  of  the  interlocutors,  he  was  approached 
in  another  way  and  as  if  he  might  possibly  be  a 
reasonable  being.  Meeting,  as  was  his  wont,  courtesy 
with  courtesy,  after  some  persuasion,  he  said  that  the 
original  document  was  one  of  a  mass  of  old  parch- 
ments taken  by  his  father  from  the  Muniment  Room 
of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe;  and  with  this  statement  the 
aroused  antiquarians  of  Bristol  were,  singularly 
enough,  content.  At  least  they  did  not  demand 
to  see  the  original,  made  no  inquiries  about  other 
documents  that  might  exist  in  the  same  collection, 
and  desisted  from  what  to  the  average  mind  inter- 
ested in  such  matters  would  seem  an  exceedingly 
alluring  scent.  The  boy  was  Thomas  Chatterton. 

One  man  in  Bristol  might  easily  have  surmised 
the  authorship  of  the  ancient  story  about  the  open- 
ing of  the  bridge.  Surgeon  Barrett,  if  he  had  stopped 
to  think,  might  have  perceived  that  his  strange  boy 
friend,  who  talked  so  much  about  St,  Mary  RedclifFe 
and  the  ancient  things  of  Bristol,  who  was  so  ready 
and  ingenious,  would  be  likely  to  know  something 
about  that  peculiar  document.  But  if  Barrett  sus- 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  69 

pected  the  identity  of  "  Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis,"  he 
confided  his  thinkings  to  no  one  but  let  that  mystery 
take  its  course.  Yet  he  now  became  more  intimate 
than  ever  with  the  Blue  Coat  boy,  to  whom  about 
this  time  he  was  the  means  of  introducing  another 
acquaintanceship  *  almost  as  unfortunate  as  his  own. 
Among  the  surgeon's  close  cronies  was  a  foolish 
prating  person  named  George  Catcott,  of  whom  we 
shall  hear  more,  a  mindless  man  whose  business  was 
making  pewter  and  who  entertained  himself  with  the 
notion  that  he  had  a  pretty  taste  in  antiquities  and 
old  literature.  He  was,  besides,  afflicted  with  two 
distempers:  a  desire  to  meddle  and  an  insatiable 
craving  for  notoriety.  Of  the  latter  I  cite  two  in- 

1  The  time  at  which  Catcott's  acquaintance  began  with  Chatterton  is,  like  so 
many  other  facts  in  this  story,  clouded  by  the  theories  and  wishes  of  various  com- 
mentators and  by  uncertain  testimony.  Catcott  himself  gave  no  clear  account  of 
it.  He  said  that  walking  in  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  one  day  a  friend  told  him  of  the 
wonderful  discoveries  of  ancient  poems  recently  made  there  by  a  young  man  and 
he  thereupon  desired  to  make  this  young  man's  acquaintance.  Accordingly  an 
introduction  followed.  If  this  account  be  true  the  friend  was  of  course  Barrett. 
But  Catcott  goes  on  to  say  that  almost  at  once  and  freely  Chatterton  gave  him  a 
great  number  of  manuscripts  of  poems  in  the  antique,  and  as  we  know  that  some 
of  these  were  not  produced  until  later,  and  as  it  was  not  like  Chatterton  to  be  so 
confiding,  the  whole  narrative  is  under  suspicion.  When  Catcott  made  his  state- 
ment what  mind  he  had  was  probably  failing.  He  knew  so  little  about  Chatterton 
anyway  that  he  did  not  know  that  the  boy  was  a  posthumous  child.  In  the  Bristol 
Museum  are  preserved  some  very  curious  notes  by  Catcott  made  into  a  volume  with 
a  copy  of  one  of  Tyrwhitt's  editions  of  Chatterton  in  which  there  are  repeated 
attempts  to  controvert  the  conclusions  of  Tyrwhitt  as  to  the  genuineness  of  Rowley. 
These  notes  convey  a  rather  painful  notion  of  the  poor  man's  mentality,  but  they 
serve  to  show  how  unlucky  Chatterton  was  in  the  persons  that  had  most  to  do  in 
influencing  his  life. 


70  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

stances :  when  the  new  bridge  was  all  but  completed 
he  risked  his  neck  and  gave  five  guineas  that  he 
might  be  the  first  to  ride  a  horse  across  it  on  loose 
planks,  an  infantile  clutch  at  celebrity  of  which  he 
was  inordinately  proud;  and  he  climbed  with  ropes  the 
new  spire  of  St.  Nicholas  church  that  he  might  place 
under  the  top  stone  a  pewter  plate  bearing  his  name. 
He  took  himself  with  such  seriousness  that  in  all  his 
life  he  never  supposed  it  possible  any  one  could  laugh 
at  him,  and  when  in  after  years  he  was  lampooned 
and  satirized,  uniformly  accepted  the  most  caustic 
sarcasm  for  honest  praise.  In  short,  a  dull  pom- 
pous man  with  no  more  sense  of  humor  than  a  sheep. 
This  creature  was  prodigiously  excited  about  the 
"Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis"  letter  and  besieged  the 
newspaper  office  to  find  its  source.  To  the  day  of 
his  death  he  never  questioned  its  authenticity;  to 
him  the  whole  story  was  sent  out  of  the  veritable 
past  for  his  own  delectation.  He  talked  much  with 
Barrett  about  it  and  eventually  warmed  that  some- 
what frigid  person  into  a  show  of  enthusiasm.  The 
surgeon  perceived  that  here  was  something  available 
for  that  ponderous  history  of  his;  the  cackling  Catcott 
was  interested  in  anything  that  could  be  manufac- 
tured into  conversation  (in  which  he  dealt  at  least 
as  much  as  in  pewter),  and  the  result  was  that  when 
they  learned  that  this  boy  had  knowledge  of  other 
parchments  they  vied  with  each  other  in  assiduous 
attention  to  him. 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  71 

Now  this  boy,  as  I  have  pointed  out,  had  a  many- 
sided  mind,  and  his  experience  at  Colston's  clerk 
mill  had  ground  fine  the  side  that  was  all  a  keen  and 
hungry  observation  of  men  and  affairs.  He  had 
associated  enough  with  commonplace  persons  to  see 
that  while  they  floundered  he  could  go  straight  to 
the  mark.  Hence  he  had  a  certain  self-confidence  in 
dealing  with  them  and  a  certain  amusement  in 
watching  their  clumsy  mental  operations.  He  had 
learned  at  Colston's  the  essential  lesson  of  commerce, 
the  genial  practises  of  material  success,  the  gospel 
that  what  men  live  for  is  to  surpass  or  out-maneuver 
other  men.  He  saw  plainly  enough  the  funda- 
mental principle  of  business,  the  cold  selfishness  of 
gain,  and  he  was  not  imposed  upon  by  the  pretenses 
of  morals  with  which  we  are  pleased  to  cloak  it. 
The  great  passion  of  his  inner  life,  next  to  his  poetry 
and  his  dreams,  was  books;  for  books  he  had  an 
insatiable  craving.  Barrett  had  a  library  and  was 
eager  to  get  old  documents  to  use  in  his  history. 
Thus,  without  more  words  on  either  side,  a  kind  of 
agreement  was  reached.  Barrett  lent  books  to 
Chatterton;  Chatterton  gave  to  Barrett  copies  of  old 
manuscripts,  and  the  spurious  history  thus  evolved, 
the  surgeon,  with  childish  credulity,  incorporated 
into  his  great  tome. 

Or  in  this  light,  at  least,  the  world  has  elected  to 
regard  Barrett's  performances.  Whoever  comes  now 


72  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

to  original  investigation  of  this  strange  story  will 
be  likely  to  gain  grave  doubts  of  it.  Some  things 
about  the  compact  between  the  boy  and  the  man 
have  never  been  revealed;  some  things  in  the  man's 
conduct  sorely  need  an  explanation  that,  if  we  had 
it,  would  probably  pluck  out  the  heart  of  this  mystery. 
For  instance,  was  Barrett  really  ignorant  that  the 
boy  was  manufacturing  for  him  spurious  evidence  ? 
Was  he  really  deceived  about  the  quality  of  any  pur- 
ported manuscript  that  was  submitted  to  him  ?  Did 
the  boy  really  work  without  suggestion  from  any 
one  ?  From  Barrett,  for  a  guess  ?  And  of  these 
manuscripts  that  were  delivered  every  week  or  so  to 
the  historian-surgeon  how  many  were  genuine  and 
how  many  were  fictitious  ? 

For  we  know  now  that  not  all  the  parchments  that 
Chatterton  produced  were  covered  with  his  own 
inventions;  some  of  the  documents  carried  from 
Canynge's  Coffer  had  genuine  historical  value;  that 
is  apparent  from  the  scraps  that  have  survived. 
What  has  become  of  those  whereof  we  have  now  no 
record  ?  That  is  the  first  question.  From  the  time 
they  passed  into  Barrett's  hands  they  seem  to  have 
disappeared.  What  did  he  do  with  them  ?  Copies 
of  some  of  them,  memoranda  of  others,  he  used  in 
his  history.  What  became  of  the  originals  ?  Barrett 
lived  to  see  the  authenticity  of  all  the  Chatterton 
documents  assailed  and  defended;  he  never  cared 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  73 

to  go  into  the  matter  of  these  originals,  although  he 
professed  to  be  deeply  interested  in  all  antiquities. 
Can  one  conceive  that  an  antiquarian  could  be  so 
indifferent  to  such  documents  that  in  wantonness  or 
neglect  he  should  destroy  them  ? 

And  this  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  cloud  of  doubt 
that  enfolds  all  this  melancholy  matter.  It  is  chiefly 
because  of  the  fabricated  documents  he  gave  to 
Barrett  that  the  name  "forger"  has  been  fastened 
upon  Thomas  Chatterton.  Most  of  his  other  experi- 
ments in  the  antique  never  saw  the  light  until  after 
his  death,  and  even  injustice  so  gross  as  has  been  his 
portion  could  hardly  charge  him  with  posthumous 
forgery.  But  are  we  so  sure  that  he  was  the  respon- 
sible forger  in  the  case  of  the  Barrett  documents  ? 
Everybody  has  accepted  the  story,  no  one  has  inves- 
tigated it.  Certainly  if  that  drama  were  to  be 
re-enacted  now  we  should  hesitate  to  condemn  any 
fifteen-year-old  boy  on  such  evidence  and  in  such 
circumstances.  For  instance,  Barrett  was  Chatter- 
ton's  most  frequent  companion;  we  know  that  the 
boy  looked  upon  the  man  with  more  respect  and 
confidence  than  he  felt  for  any  other  person  in  Bristol. 
At  one  time  he  desired  to  study  medicine  and  to  be 
articled  to  the  surgeon;  he  was  almost  daily  in  the 
surgeon's  house.  Admitting  it  to  be  quite  possible 
that  the  boy  should  be  willing  to  deceive  and  impose 
upon  the  man  by  giving  him  false  documents,  it  was 


74  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

extremely  improbable  that  the  man  should  be  de- 
ceived in  any  such  way.  Why  ?  Because  there  was 
no  other  person  in  Bristol,  if  in  England,  so  well 
informed  as  to  the  difference  between  genuine  old 
documents  and  fabricated  old  documents. 

For  long  before  he  knew  Thomas  Chatterton  this 
surgeon  had  known  about  that  chest  in  the  Muniment 
Room  and  its  contents.  A  barber  of  Bristol,  one 
Morgan,  who  dabbled  in  antiquities  (incredible  as 
it  may  seem  the  educated  men  of  the  day  despised 
such  studies  when  related  to  their  own  country),  had 
gathered  many  of  the  parchments,  certainly  as  early 
as  the  pilfering  of  others  by  Chatterton's  father,  and 
from  Morgan's  collection  Barrett  had  been  a  fre- 
quent purchaser.  He  tells  us  that  he  obtained  from 
the  barber  enough  of  the  old  parchments  to  fill  a 
volume.  He  never  tells  us  what  became  of  them, 
but  this  at  least  is  clear  and  certain,  that  before 
Chatterton  came  into  Barrett's  life  Barrett  was  ex- 
pert in  the  nature  of  the  genuine  old  documents  from 
Canynge's  Coffer.  He  had  handled,  examined,  pur- 
chased and  copied  hundreds  of  them,  and  being  by 
all  accounts  a  thrifty  soul,  there  was  no  one  less  likely 
to  be  deceived  about  them.  How  could  he  fail  to 
detect  Chatterton's  imitations  ?  Of  such  of  these  as 
have  come  to  light  few  are  in  the  least  likely  to 
deceive  any  one  that  has  eyes  good  enough  to  see  a 
church  by  daylight.  And  here  was  Barrett,  the 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  75 

shrewd  bargainer,  the  canny  purchaser  of  other  things 
of  this  nature,  taken  in  by  what  has  never  taken  in 
anybody  else.  To  be  sure  many  of  the  documents 
were  genuine,  that  is  true  enough,  but  as  to  the  rest, 
either  Barrett  did  not  look  at  them  with  the  least 
attention,  or  he  knew  quite  well  that  they  were  manu- 
factured and  was  willing  to  profit  in  his  way  by  their 
making.  This  is  the  inevitable  conclusion.  On  the 
whole,  perhaps,  we  are  all  wrong  in  our  zeal  to  de- 
nounce this  boy.  Perhaps  some  of  the  odium  that 
for  more  than  a  century  has  hung  about  his  name 
belongs  elsewhere.  William  Barrett  was  then  a 
mature  man;  he  was  dealing  with  a  boy  fourteen, 
fifteen  years  old,  a  boy  without  training  or  experi- 
ence. Suppose  we  cease  to  castigate  the  boy  "  literary 
forger"  and  pay  some  attention  to  the  man  that  had 
at  the  very  least  abundant  reason  to  know  of  the 
forgeries  and  never  made  the  slightest  effort  to 
discourage  them.  This  man  was  then  engaged  in 
writing  a  work  in  which  the  authenticity  of  his  state- 
ments was  not  likely  to  be  questioned.  If  there  be 
any  kind  of  a  history  that  is  wholly  apt  to  escape 
too  curious  comment  it  is  one  designed  for  local 
consumption  and  flattering  to  the  local  vanity.  How 
could  he  suspect  that  this  boy  would  ever  be  the 
means  of  throwing  a  white  light  upon  his  book  ? 
His  heart  was  set  upon  acquiring  parchments,  there 
is  reason  to  think  he  was  not  disposed  to  be  over- 


76  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

scrupulous  about  them,  and  when  we  discover,  as 
we  shall  further  on,  that  in  one  of  the  fabrications 
Chatterton  had  Barrett's  active  assistance,  and  that 
in  the  one  deception  that  has  done  the  boy  the  most 
harm  he  had  Barrett's  cooperation  and  advice,  we 
may  well  suspect  that  from  the  beginning  the  world 
has  been  on  the  track  of  the  wrong  offender. 

But  even  if  Barrett  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
making  of  the  false  manuscripts,  even  if  he  were 
inconceivably  dull  and  inordinately  gullible  and  next 
to  sand  blind,  even  if  Chatterton  were  alone  respon- 
sible, it  is  still  a  just  conclusion  that  we  have  hounded 
this  boy  long  enough.  Many  things  are  to  be  con- 
sidered that  in  the  case  of  any  one  else,  say  one  not 
delegated  to  be  an  awful  example,  would  have  aroused 
pity  and  tender  consideration;  many  facts  would 
seem  to  palliate  and  obscure  the  atrocity  of  his  of- 
fense. I  purpose  to  go  into  them  fully  here  because 
it  is  chiefly  by  the  citing  of  these  spurious  manu- 
scripts that  one  of  the  greatest  poets  and  greatest 
intellects  of  the  world  has  been  kept  out  of  the 
recognition  due  to  his  genius. 

We  know,  as  I  have  before  pointed  out,  that  some 
of  the  documents  Chatterton  furnished  were  not  only 
genuine  but  of  real  interest  and  value.  Now  Chat- 
terton supplied  these  documents  in  return  for  books, 
books  that  were  the  life  of  him,  books  that  he  must 
have  or  perish  intellectually.  Supposing,  therefore, 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  77 

that  the  fictitious  documents  were  not  made  at  the 
instance  of  another,  we  may  believe  that  so  long  as 
he  could  he  delivered  the  genuine  relics.  When 
they  failed,  the  thought  of  losing  his  supply  of  books 
was  more  than  he  could  endure,  and  the  repeated 
demands  of  the  surgeon  drove  him  to  the  fabricating 
of  other  documents  as  he  had  made  the  parchment 
copy  of  "Elinoure  and  Juga";  the  success  of  that 
innocent  excursion  inspired  the  others. 

The  suggestion  is  not  mine,1  hence  I  am  the  more 
at  liberty  to  show  how  reasonable  it  may  be.  As  to 
the  genuine  nature  and  historical  value  of  some 
documents  from  Canynge's  Coffer,  that  is  certain 
enough.  One,  at  least,  of  the  parchments  2  from 
that  ancient  repository  threw  invaluable  light  upon 
the  very  line  of  inquiry  that  Barrett  was  pursuing. 
For  years  after  the  breaking  of  the  locks  on  the  chests 
the  parchments  littered  the  floor  of  the  Muniment 
Room.  In  some  way  one  of  them  came  into  the  pos- 
session of  John  Browning,  of  Barton,  near  Bristol, 

1  See  Professor  Wilson's  admirable  "Chatterton." 

2  Another  document  from  the  same  source  seems  to  have  a  singular  history. 
Horace  Walpole,  in  his  letter  of  defense  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cole,  relates  it,  if  any 
dependence  can  be  placed  upon  Walpole's  testimony.    He  says  that  an  ancient 
painter's  bill  that  forms  the  subject  of  one  of  the  "Anecdotes  of  Painting"  came 
from  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  where  it  had  been  found  some  years  before  Chatterton 
was  born,  and  transcribed  for  Walpole  by  Vertue.    Walpole  tries  to  create  the 
impression  that  Vertue,  who  was  something  of  a  poet,  was  the  inspiration  of  Chat- 
terton, and  that  the  painter's  bill  stimulated  the  boy  to  his  pretended  discoveries 
about  old-time  painters  and  others. 


78  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  from  his  cabinet  after  his  death  was  communi- 
cated to  the  Society  of  Antiquaries.  It  recorded  the 
gift  by  Canynge  to  Redcliffe  Church  of  a  new  Easter 
sepulcher  and  scenic  accessories  for  the  presenta- 
tion in  the  church  of  the  Mystery  of  the  Resurrection. 
The  date  was  July  4,  1470,  when  Master  Nicholas 
Pyttes  was  vicar  of  the  church.  The  details  of  the 
gift  are  quaint  and  most  interesting  and  throw  light 
upon  the  manner  of  playing  the  Mysteries,  which 
were  the  only  form  of  dramatic  entertainment  known 
in  that  age.  A  list  of  the  accessories  included  painted 
scenery  of  timber  and  cloth  representing  heaven  and 
hell  and  God  arising  from  the  tomb,  with  other 
scenes.  This  notable  matter  came  straight  from 
Canynge's  Coffer  and  doubtless  there  were  others 
of  like  moment. 

If  so,  and  we  knew  them,  perhaps  they  would  tend 
to  solve  one  of  the  riddles  of  this  mysterious  affair. 
For  one  thing  that  always  puzzles  the  investigator  of 
the  Chatterton  story  is  the  boy's  astonishing  and 
unaccountable  familiarity  with  facts  in  the  ancient 
history  of  Bristol  that  no  one  else  was  acquainted 
with,  and  that  nevertheless  were  well  authenticated. 
I  will  give  two  illustrations: 

The  tower  of  Temple  Church  is  about  five 
feet  out  of  plumb.  In  one  of  the  Rowleyan  docu- 
ments Chatterton  made  a  reference  to  the  building 
of  this  church  that  would  account  for  the  inclination 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  79 

of  the  tower.  A  few  years  after  Chatterton's  death, 
the  old  gates  leading  to  Temple  Church,  having  be- 
come decayed,  were  dug  up  and,  in  the  excavating, 
evidence  was  found  that  Chatterton's  account  of  the 
building  was  perfectly  correct,  although  in  his  time 
knowledge  about  it  seems  to  have  been  confined  to 
himself. 

Again,  in  one  of  the  manuscripts  presented  by 
Chatterton  to  Barrett  was  a  description  of  Canynge's 
house,  the  Red  Lodge,  purporting  to  have  been 
written  by  Rowley  about  1460.  The  good  priest 
says  therein  that  the  Canynge  house  occupied  the 
site  of  an  older  building,  a  chapel  of  St.  Mathias. 
"This  Chapel,"  says  Rowley  (I  modernize  for  the 
sake  of  the  reader's  ease),  "was  first  built  by  Alward, 
a  Saxon,  in  867,  and  is  now  made  into  a  Free  Mason's 
lodge,  of  which  I,  unworthy,  and  Master  Canynge 
are  brethren."  This  was  printed  in  Surgeon  Barrett's 
huge  tome,  and  when  these  matters  began  to  be  scru- 
tinized, was  regarded  as  a  mere  flight  of  Chatterton's 
fancy,  no  one  else  having  heard  of  such  a  matter  and 
no  testimony  anywhere  supporting  it.  Neverthe- 
less, when  early  in  the  last  century  a  great  part  of  the 
remains  of  the  Canynge  house  was  destroyed  for  the 
sweet  and  reasonable  purpose  of  building  a  floor- 
cloth factory,  the  workmen  uncovered  under  it  an 
arched  subterranean  passage  leading  from  Canynge's 
house,  and  the  materials  of  an  old  building  with 


8o  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Saxon  columns.  These  columns  evidently  formed 
the  front  line  of  the  buried  building  facing  the 
river.  For  these  facts  there  can  be  no  explanation 
except  that  the  boy  possessed  sources  of  informa- 
tion not  known  by  the  generality  of  men.  He  might, 
therefore,  properly  enough  communicate  this  knowl- 
edge to  Barrett.  We  have  just  seen  an  instance 
where  he  did  this  very  thing  and  where  the  informa- 
tion was  quite  correct.  How  many  other  such  in- 
stances are  buried  in  Barrett's  dull  pages  we  shall 
never  know. 

There  is  still  another  plea  for  our  compassion  and 
one  not  to  be  overlooked.  The  old  verger  now  at 
St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  who  shows  to  visitors  the  Muni- 
ment Room  and  other  interesting  matters,  always 
concludes  his  account  of  Thomas  Chatterton  by 
stating  his  belief  that  the  boy  was  induced  to  his 
impostures  "to  help  his  poor  mother."  At  which 
wise  men,  schooled  in  the  accepted  accounts,  smile  at 
the  verger's  defense  and  shake  their  heads.  And  yet, 
so  complex  are  all  the  motives  of  men  that  the  verger 
is  partly  right.  This  boy  had  no  more  compelling 
impulse  than  his  passionate  devotion  to  his  mother 
and  sister.  All  his  dreams  of  success  and  future 
greatness  centered  about  them;  they  were  to  share 
everything.  Many  times  he  told  them  what  he 
planned  to  do  for  them,  the  house  he  would  build 
for  them,  the  comfort  and  luxury  they  should  have 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  8l 

when  he  had  achieved  his  fortune.  For  them  he 
patiently  endured  the  hardships  and  freezing  atmos- 
phere of  Colston's,  which  in  his  soul  he  detested. 
Hour  after  hour  he  spent  with  them  building  them 
these  castles  and  happy  in  the  airy  structures.  He 
had  his  plan,  he  knew  his  way  of  life,  and  books 
were  as  necessary  to  it  as  blood  to  his  heart.  Here 
were  books  at  this  scheming  surgeon's.  He  reveled 
in  them  so  long  as  the  genuine  documents  lasted;  we 
may  well  think  that  when  these  failed  a  dread  lest 
his  supply  should  be  cut  off  was  probably  more  than 
he  could  stand. 

For  books  were  so  hard  to  get,  so  hard !  We  know 
now  that  knowledge  is  the  inalienable  inheritance 
of  all  mankind,  that  to  expect  men  to  grow  straight 
and  sound  without  it  is  like  expecting  a  tree  to  grow 
in  a  cellar.  But  in  that  day  it  was  different,  in  that 
day  knowledge  was  looked  upon  as  a  dangerous  pos- 
session for  all  except  the  fortunate.  The  Bristol  Mu- 
seum and  Library  preserves  a  record  of  the  pitiable 
struggles  and  trials  of  Coleridge  a  few  years  later  to 
get  books  in  that  same  city,  and  Coleridge  was  a  man 
and  already  marked  by  fame.  What  should  this  boy 
do,  penniless,  alone,  unknown,  friendless  and  driven 
implacably  by  this  fierce  thirst  to  know  ?  Mankind 
provides  the  conditions  that  make  wrong-doing 
inevitable  and  is  then  pleased  to  be  much  amazed 
that  any  one  should  do  wrong.  On  a  calm  survey 


82  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  this  instance,  the  only  real  amazement  will  be 
that  this  boy  did  nothing  worse  than  palm  off  his 
counterfeit  antiques  upon  two  foolish  men. 

For  Catcott  insisted  upon  sharing  in  the  unearthed 
treasures,  and  indeed  he  was  of  that  open-mouthed 
and  childish  faith  that  with  his  pretensions  and 
arrogance  a  boy  of  Chatterton's  superior  mind  and 
cynical  wit  could  hardly  withstand  the  temptation 
to  fool  him.  No  doubt  this  was  not  the  stern  and 
edifying  rectitude  that  with  great  wisdom  we  expect 
boys  of  fifteen  to  display  upon  all  occasions,  but  it 
may  be  thought  that  more  heinous  offenses  are  of 
record.  "There  is  in  the  world,"  remarks  Charles 
Reade,  "an  animal  of  no  great  general  merit  but 
with  the  eye  of  a  hawk  for  affectations.  It  is  called 
a  boy."  Chatterton  knew  perfectly  well  that  Catcott's 
antiquarian  skill  was  sheer  affectation,  that  his  com- 
ments on  ancient  literature  were  merely  absurd,  that 
the  man  was  a  walking  humbug.  All  quick-witted 
boys  have  an  impulse  to  play  tricks  on  such  pre- 
tenders; the  learned  gentlemen  that  have  overlooked 
this  fact  can  never  have  been  boys  themselves. 
When,  therefore,  the  ponderous  pewterer  wanted 
to  see  old  manuscripts  and  talked  of  them  with 
assumed  learning,  Chatterton  obliged  him  with  a 
few  —  from  his  own  workshop. 

The  number  of  these  fabrications  with  which  he 
favored  the  surgeon  and  the  pewterer  is  really  not 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  83 

great,  though  from  the  noise  they  have  made  in 
the  world  one  would  think  they  were  legion.  The 
penwork  is  cleverly  done,  that  is  beyond  dispute, 
but  nothing  seems  stranger  than  that  any  one  should 
have  been  deceived  by  them;  the  ocher  stains  and 
candle-marks  are  so  obvious  that  they  look  more 
like  the  experiments  and  amusements  of  an  idle 
hour  than  like  serious  attempts  at  imitation.  If 
Barrett  did  not  indeed  know  more  about  their 
origin  than  he  ever  confessed  there  is  need  of  a 
far  more  expert  defense  of  his  credulity  than  has 
appeared. 

The  boy's  diversions  with  the  surgeon  and  the 
pewterer  he  held  as  something  apart  from  the  busi- 
ness of  his  soul,  which  was  poetry.  By  this  time  we 
should  have  far  outgrown  the  notions  that  any  human 
being  does  anything  great  or  small  for  one  motive, 
that  minds  of  extraordinary  activity  and  capacity 
can  be  expected  to  be  of  one  order,  and  that  the 
creative  temperament  can  always  be  perfectly  con- 
sistent. Many  causes  combined  to  lead  Chatterton 
along  a  certain  way  of  deception,  and  not  the  least, 
we  may  suppose,  was  the  fact  that  the  men  he  fooled 
thought  they  were  fooling  him.  Catcott,  at  least, 
believed  that  his  young  friend  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  value  of  the  manuscripts  he  produced,  and  the 
man's  lumbering  attempts  to  secure  the  manuscripts 
and  yet  to  avoid  the  incurring  of  any  expense  to  him- 


84  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

self  in  the  getting  of  them  were  doubtless  sufficiently 
amusing.  The  boy's  inconsistency  in  indulging 
these  pastimes  when  he  was  already  deep  in  his  con- 
ception and  creation  of  the  Rowley  romance  and 
the  splendid  Rowley  poetry  is  remarkable  enough; 
and  yet  the  two  came  together  shortly.  For  when 
he  had  made  a  Rowley  poem  it  was  inevitable  that 
he  should  try  it  upon  some  one,  and  here  was  the 
avenue  open;  he  tried  it  upon  Barrett  and  Catcott, 
and  among  the  ancient  manuscripts  to  which  these 
worthies  were  soon  treated  were  copies  of  some  of  the 
best  of  the  Rowley  series.  A  boy  fifteen  years  old 
and  unguided  could  hardly  be  supposed  to  have  hit 
upon  very  advanced  notions  about  the  immorality 
of  deceiving  those  that  had  tried  to  deceive  him. 
How  much  of  the  blame  for  his  practises  in  this 
respect  belongs  to  those  that  had  been  charged  with 
the  training  of  his  youthful  mind  ?  For  instance, 
how  about  the  head-master  that  had  beaten  him  for 
writing  poetry  ?  How  about  other  beatings  and  the 
glacial  atmosphere  in  which  his  moral  virtues  were 
expected  to  thrive  ?  How  do  we  know  that  he  was 
ever  taught  to  do  better?  And  what. but  deceit  is 
the  child's  inevitable  refuge  from  tyranny  ?  He  had 
borne  on  his  frail,  little  body  the  marks  of  many 
cudgels,  but  in  all  his  life  no  one  ever  addressed  him 
as  a  reasonable  creature  when  it  came  to  matters  of 
right  and  wrong.  No  one  ever  took  him  aside  and 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  85 

told  him  that  merely  as  a  matter  of  practical  ad- 
vantage and  daily  wisdom  the  straight  plain  path 
was  the  only  path.  No  one  ever  invited  his 
confidence,  no  one  was  ever  interested  in  what 
vitally  concerned  him,  nobody  ever  counseled  him 
as  a  friend. 

I  dwell  at  length  upon  what  to  most  persons  will 
seem  a  perfectly  obvious  and  adequate  defense, 
because  far  more  space  has  heretofore  been  con- 
sumed in  denouncing  Chatterton  for  deceiving  people 
than  in  pointing  out  to  the  world  his  marvelous  work. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Chatterton's  relations  with  the 
surgeon  and  the  pewterer  are  just  as  important  as  the 
number  of  times  some  other  boy  played  truant.  His 
art  means  much  more  than  his  weakness. 

Catcott  had  for  partner  in  his  pewtering  enter- 
prise one  Burgum,  an  ignorant  vain  man,  who  had 
prospered  without  education  and,  as  it  subsequently 
appeared,  without  deserving.  It  seems  that  becom- 
ing rich  he  was  at  great  pains  to  hide,  by  an 
affectation  of  interest  in  matters  of  which  he  knew 
nothing,  the  defects  of  his  early  training.  No  one 
in  Bristol  made  quicker  detection  of  Burgum's  pre- 
tenses than  Chatterton.  Possibly,  also,  he  may  have 
had  some  intuitive  perception  of  the  essential  flaw 
in  the  man's  honesty.  However  that  may  be,  he 
saw  that  Burgum  was  ambitious  to  clear  what  was 
in  contemporaneous  eyes  the  social  morass  of  his 


86  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

origin.  One  afternoon  1  Chatterton  walked  into  the 
shop  of  Burgum  &  Catcott  and  quietly  asked  of 
the  head  of  the  firm  this  little  question : 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  descended  from  one 
of  the  oldest  families  in  England  ?" 

"God  bless  my  soul  —  no!  Is  that  so?  How  do 
you  know  ? "  cried  the  astonished  pewterer. 

"  I  have  seen  the  records,"  said  Chatterton  calmly. 

"Let's  hear  about  it,"  said  the  delighted  man. 

Chatterton  obligingly  produced  a  document  trac- 
ing the  pewterer's  descent  from  Simon  de  Seyncte 
Lyze,  earl  of  Southampton,  who  had  come  over  with 
the  Conqueror.  The  good  news  must  have  unsettled 
Burgum's  reason,  for  it  is  stated  that  he  gave  the 
boy  five  shillings.  The  pedigree  was  carried  down 
as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  In 

1  The  period  of  the  making  of  De  Bergham  pedigree  is  only  one  of  innumerable 
matters  about  which  in  this  story  there  have  been  conflicting  surmises.  Every 
biographer  has  fixed  the  time  to  suit  himself,  a  genial  practise  that  has  prevailed 
concerning  most  details  connected  with  Chatterton.  Some  have  made  it  to  occur 
while  Chatterton  was  a  Blue  Coat  boy  and  have  declared  that  it  was  the  first  of  his 
fabrications  and  suggested  the  rest.  Joseph  Cottle  said  that  it  was  when  Chatter- 
ton  was  sixteen  years  old,  which  would  mean  while  he  was  at  Lambert's.  One 
point  that  all  have  overlooked  is  that  Barrett  assisted  in  the  pedigree,  which  makes 
the  date  later  than  his  introduction  to  Barrett,  and  probably  at  a  time  when  they 
had  long  been  acquainted.  Some  of  these  commentators  seem  artlessly  to  assume 
that  Chatterton  was  of  a  wide  acquaintance  in  Bristol  and  knew  Burgum  as  he 
knew  many  others.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  knew  few  persons.  Barrett,  in  all 
probability,  introduced  him  to  Catcott,  and  through  Catcott  he  became  acquainted 
with  Burgum.  This  would  make  the  hoax  on  Burgum  of  a  time  when  Chatterton 
was  in  Lambert's  office,  and  show  that  Cottle,  who  had  no  reason  to  misrepresent 
the  case,  had  the  correct  date. 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  87 

a  few  days  Chatterton  returned  with  another  instal- 
ment, continuing  the  family  history  from  one  Sir 
John  de  Bergham,  a  famous  knight  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  to  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Sir  James  de 
Bergham,  said  Chatterton's  memorandum,  "was 
one  of  the  greatest  ornaments  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived.  He  wrote  several  books,  and  translated 
some  part  of  the  Iliad,  under  the  title  *  Romance 
of  Troy,'  which  possibly  may  be  the  book  alluded 
to  in  the  following  'French  Memoire,'"  and  then 
follows  a  quotation  in  old  French.  "To  give  you 
an  idea  of  the  poetry  of  the  age,"  continues  Chatter- 
ton  in  his  memorandum  of  the  pedigree,  "take  the 
following  Piece,  wrote  by  him  (John  de  Bergham) 
about  1320." 

THE  ROMAUNTE  OF  THE  CNYGHTE 

BY  JOHN  DE  BERGHAM 

The  Sunne  ento  Vyrgyne  was  gotten, 

The  floureys  al  arounde  onspryngede, 

The  woddie  Grasse  blaunched  the  Fenne, 

The  Quenis  Ermyne  arised  fro  Bedde; 

Syr  Knyghte  dyd  ymounte  oponn  a  Stede 

Ne  Rouncie  ne  Drybblette  of  make, 

Thanne  asterte  for  dur'sie  dede 

Wythe  Morglaie  hys  Fooemenne  to  make  blede 

Eke  swythyn  as  wynde.  Trees,  theyre  Hartys  to  shake. 

Al  doune  in  a  Delle,  a  merke  dernie  Delle, 

Wheere  Coppys  eke  Thighe  Trees  there  bee, 


88  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

There  dyd  hee  perchaunce  Isee 
A  Damoselle  askedde  for  ayde  on  her  kne, 
An  Cnyghte  uncourteous  dydde  bie  her  stonde, 
Hee  hollyd  herr  faeste  bie  her  honde, 
Discorteous  Cnyghte,  I  doe  praie  nowe  thou  telle 
Whirst  doeste  thou  bee  so  to  thee  Damselle  ? 
The  Knyghte  hym  assoled  eftsoones, 
Itte  beethe  ne  mattere  of  thyne. 
Begon  for  I  wayte  notte  thye  boones. 

The  Knyghte  sed  I  proove  on  thie  Gaberdyne. 

Alyche  Boars  enchafed  to  fyghte  heie  flies. 

The  Discoorteous  Knyghte  bee  strynge  botte  strynger  the  righte, 

The  dynne  bee  herde  a'myle  for  fuire  in  the  fyghte, 

Tyl  thee  false  Knyghte  yfallethe  and  dyes. 

Damoysel,  quod  the  Knyghte,  now  comme  thou  wi  me, 
Y  wotte  welle  quod  shee  I  nede  thee  ne  fere. 
The  Knyghte  yfallen  badd  wolde  Ischulde  bee, 
Butte  loe  he  ys  dedde  maie  itte  spede  Heaven-were. 

As  the  pewterer  naturally  could  make  nothing  of 
this,  his  education  being  limited  to  English  fairly 
writ,  Chatterton  was  good  enough  to  send  along  a 
translation,  as  follows: 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  KNIGHT 

The  pleasing  sweets  of  spring  and  summer  past, 
The  falling  leaf  flies  in  the  sultry  blast, 
The  fields  resign  their  spangling  orbs  of  gold, 
The  wrinkled  grass  its  silver  joys  unfold, 
Mantling  the  spreading  moor  in  heavenly  white, 
Meeting  from  every  hill  the  ravish'd  sight. 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER 

The  yellow  flag  uprears  its  spotted  head, 
Hanging  regardant  o'er  its  wat'ry  bed; 
The  worthy  knight  ascends  his  foaming  steed, 
Of  size  uncommon,  and  no  common  breed. 
His  sword  of  giant  make  hangs  from  his  belt, 
Whose  piercing  edge  his  daring  foes  had  felt. 
To  seek  for  glory  and  renown  he  goes 
To  scatter  death  among  his  trembling  foes; 
Unnerved  by  fear  they  trembled  at  his  stroke; 
So  cutting  blasts  shake  the  tall  mountain  oak. 

Down  in  a  dark  and  solitary  vale 

Where  the  curst  screech-owl  sings  her  fatal  tale, 

Where  copse  and  brambles  interwoven  lie, 

Where  trees  entwining  arch  the  azure  sky, 

Thither  the  fate-mark'd  champion  bent  his  way, 

By  purling  streams  to  lose  the  heat  of  day; 

A  sudden  cry  assaults  his  list'ning  ear, 

His  soul's  too  noble  to  admit  of  fear.  — 

The  cry  re-echoes;  with  his  bounding  steed 

He  gropes  the  way  from  whence  the  cries  proceed. 

The  arching  trees  above  obscur'd  the  light, 

Here  'twas  all  evening,  there  eternal  night. 

And  now  the  rustling  leaves  and  strengthened  cry 

Bespeaks  the  cause  of  the  confusion  nigh; 

Through  the  thick  brake  th'  astonish'd  champion  see 

A  weeping  damsel  bending  on  her  knees: 

A  ruffian  knight  would  force  her  to  the  ground, 

But  still  some  small  resisting  strength  she  found. 

The  champion  thus:  "Desist,  discourteous  knight, 

Why  dost  thou  shamefully  misuse  thy  might?" 

With  eye  contemptuous  thus  the  knight  replies, 

"Begone!  who  ever  dares  my  fury  dies!" 


90  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Down  to  the  ground  the  champion's  gauntlet  flew, 
"I  dare  thy  fury,  and  I'll  prove  it  too." 

Like  two  fierce  mountain-boars  enraged  they  fly, 

The  prancing  steeds  make  Echo  rend  the  sky, 

Like  a  fierce  tempest  is  the  bloody  fight, 

Dead  from  his  lofty  steed  falls  the  proud  ruffian  knight. 

The  victor,  sadly  pleas'd,  accosts  the  dame, 

"I  will  convey  you  hence  to  whence  you  came." 

With  look  of  gratitude  the  fair  replied 

"Content;  I  in  your  virtue  may  confide. 

But,"  said  the  fair  as  mournful  she  survey'd 

The  breathless  corse  upon  the  meadow  laid, 

"May  all  thy  sins  from  heaven  forgiveness  find! 

May  not  thy  body's  crimes  affect  thy  mind!" 

The  memorandum  of  the  pedigree  was  thickly 
sown  with  marginal  references  to  the  authority  for 
each  statement,  "The  Roll  of  Battle  Abbey,'* 
"Cotton's  Records,"  "Ashmole's  Order  of  the 
Garter,  page  669,"  "Collins,"  "Thoresby,"  and 
repeatedly  "Rowley,"  being  given  as  the  sources  of 
information.  Some  of  these  authorities  were  of 
Chatterton's  invention  and  some  were  thoughtfully 
drafted  to  do  duty  for  the  occasion.  The  strangest 
thing  is  that  in  the  composing  of  this  ingenious  fraud 
he  had  the  assistance  of  Barrett;  here,  as  so  often 
elsewhere,  we  encounter  that  peculiar  person  in  a 
way  that  arouses  suspicion.  In  the  memorandum 
of  the  pedigree  the  translation  of  the  Latin  passages 
is  in  the  surgeon's  handwriting.  It  is  possible,  of 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  91 

course,  that  he  furnished  the  translation  without 
knowing  for  what  use  it  was  designed,  but  it  is  possi- 
ble only  in  the  sense  that  any  irrational  supposition 
may  be  said  to  be  possible.  Burgum  buzzed  much 
about  Bristol  of  his  wonderful  pedigree.  As  he  was 
Catcott's  partner  and  Barrett  was  Catcott's  most 
intimate  friend,  it  is  incredible  that  Barrett  should 
not  hear  of  it  if  he  did  not  have  it  brought  to  him, 
and,  hearing  of  it,  equally  incredible  that  he  should 
not  recognize  the  Latin  translation  and  the  use  to 
which  it  had  been  put.  Yet  he  said  never  a  word 
on  the  subject.  If  he  had  told  Catcott,  Catcott 
would  have  told  Burgum;  but  for  four  or  five  years 
Burgum  warmed  himself,  undisturbed  and  fatuously 
confident,  in  the  glory  of  his  new-found  greatness. 
Then  for  some  reason,  possibly  the  incredulity  of  a 
neighbor  or  the  scoffing  of  the  ribald-minded,  he 
sent  the  pedigree  for  verification  to  the  Herald's 
College,  at  London,  from  which  it  was  quickly 
returned  with  its  spurious  nature  clearly  demon- 
strated. Burgum  survived  the  shock  and  possi- 
bly found  consolation  in  the  operations  by  which 
he  subsequently  won  by  fraud  his  partner's  entire 
fortune. 

These  were  by  no  means  the  whole  of  the  boy's 
activities  while  at  Lambert's.  One  of  his  friends  at 
Colston's  had  been  the  youth  Baker,  who  also 
seems  to  have  learned  from  that  competent  academy 


92  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

some  lessons  in  disingenuousness.  Perhaps  we 
should  do  well  to  turn  some  of  our  investigating  ener- 
gies toward  the  school  to  see  what  was  morally  amiss 
there,  for  assuredly  something  was  wrong.  Baker 
had  now  emigrated  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
whence  he  wrote  Chatterton  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  Charleston  beauty  named  Eleanor 
Hoyland,  and  knowing  something  of  his  former 
friend's  facility  in  making  verses  he  begged  for  a 
supply  of  a  fervent  character  that  he  might  pass  upon 
Miss  Hoyland  as  his  own.  Sound  the  tucket,  let 
the  charge  begin  upon  this  Baker,  deceiver  of  the 
unsuspecting,  passer  of  forged  notes  in  the  world 
of  meter!  Chatterton,  whose  views  of  love  on  his 
own  account  were  of  an  exceedingly  cynical  and 
irresponsive  sort,  nevertheless  heeded  this  cry  of 
distress  from  the  wounded  and  sent  a  stock  of  glow- 
ing addresses  calculated  to  melt  any  lady's  heart. 
"To  the  Beauteous (Miss  Hoyland,"  "Ode  to  Miss 
Hoyland,"  "Acrostic  on  Miss  Eleanor  Hoyland," 
and  seven  poems  in  different  measures  each  entitled 
simply  "To  Miss  Hoyland,"  sufficiently  attest  Chat- 
terton's  laborious  zeal  for  his  friend  as  well  as  his 
versatility.  How  well  he  succeeded  may  be  guessed 
from  this  specimen: 

Amidst  the  wild  and  dreary  dells, 
The  distant  echo-giving  bells, 
The  bending  mountain's  head; 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  93 

Whilst  Evening,  moving  thro'  the  sky, 
Over  the  object  and  the  eye, 
Her  pitchy  robes  doth  spread; 

There,  gently  moving  thro'  the  vale, 
Bending  before  the  blust'ring  gale, 

Fell  apparitions  glide; 
Whilst  roaming  rivers  echo  round, 
The  drear  reverberating  sound 

Runs  through  the  mountain  side; 

Then  steal  I  softly  to  the  grove, 
And,  singing  of  the  nymph  I  love, 

Sigh  out  my  sad  complaint; 
To  paint  the  tortures  of  my  mind, 
Where  can  the  Muses  numbers  find  ? 

Ah!  numbers  are  too  faint! 

and  so  on.  It  appears  that  he  had  not  only  to  imagine 
the  inspiration  and  beauty  of  the  fair  one,  but  the 
scenery  in  which  she  moved,  a  task  that  might  have 
daunted  an  expert. 

In  these  days  he  was  busily  engaged  on  his  Rowley 
poems,  but  found  time  to  write  in  another  manner 
a  great  deal  of  verse  and  some  prose.  The  qualities 
that  make  a  satirist  and  the  qualities  that  make  a 
poet  are  commonly  and  justly  regarded  as  incom- 
patible. Satire  requires  a  nature  observant,  keen, 
humorous,  addicted  to  close  reasoning;  the  singing 
poet  must  have  introspection,  melodic  gifts  and 
dreams.  That  is  to  say,  one  nature  is  the  opposite 


94  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  the  other.  The  sharp  difference  between  the  two 
may  be  seen  if  we  place  Pope  by  Tennyson,  or  Dryden 
by  Swinburne.  But  in  this  boy  were  strangely 
united  both  natures;  he  was  both  dreamer  and  ob- 
server, singer  and  satirist;  he  had  both  introspection 
and  observation.  One  commentator  has  asserted 
that  every  poet  is  bi-sexual.  Here  is  one  clearly 
bi-natural.  With  one  side  of  his  nature  he  dreamed 
of  Rowley  and  Canynge,  dwelt  in  the  past,  heard 
old  minstrels  and  saw  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
medievalism  all  about  him;  with  the  other  side  he 
watched  the  men  and  manners  of  his  time  and  from 
his  observations  made  a  series  of  satiric  portraits 
of  contemporaries  at  least  as  vivid  as  anything  that 
Churchill  did  and  often  far  more  vitriolic.  Nothing 
that  happened  in  the  nation  and  was  reported  in 
the  newspapers  escaped  his  attention.  He  saw  the 
conflict  beginning  between  the  people  and  privilege, 
between  surviving  feudalism  and  rising  democracy, 
and  from  natural  sympathy  and  conviction,  he  threw 
himself,  a  mere  boy  but  with  the  most  powerful  pen 
and  original  genius  in  England,  into  the  fight  for 
liberty. 

Of  the  documents  supplied  by  Chatterton  to  meet 
the  persistent  demands  of  Barrett  there  were  in 
prose  certain  writings  purporting  to  have  been  made 
by  Rowley  at  Canynge's  request  and  describing  the 
state  of  the  arts,  or  bearing  on  old  Bristol  history; 


The  Supposed  Portrait  of  Chatterton. 
(From  a  photograph  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Edward  Bell.) 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  95 

and  in  verse  two  of  the  finest  specimens  of  Chatter- 
ton's  genius,  "The  Parlyamente  of  Sprytes"  and 
"The  Battle  of  Hastings."  "The  Parlyamente  of 
Sprytes"  was  also  entitled  "A  Most  Merrie  Entyr- 
lude,  plaied  bie  the  Carmelyte  Freeres  at  Mastre 
Canynges  hys  greete  howse,  before  Mastre  Canynges 
and  Byshoppe  Carpenterre,  on  dedicatynge  the 
chyrche  of  Oure  Ladie  of  Redclefte,"  "wroten  bie 
T.  Rowleie  and  J.  Iscamme,"  Iscam  being  in  the 
Rowley  romance  a  canon  of  St.  Augustine's  monas- 
tery. If  we  suppose  Barrett  to  have  been  an  inno- 
cent dupe  he  must  have  been  too  ignorant  to  know 
whether  interludes  in  modern  rhymes  and  elegant 
stanzas  were  played  in  the  time  of  Edward  IV  and 
too  dull  to  be  suspicious  of  the  appearance  of  a  second 
medieval  poet  also  of  extraordinary  endowments, 
but  in  simple  faith  accepted  all.  He  incorporated 
"The  Parlyamente  of  Sprytes"  as  a  veritable  docu- 
ment in  his  interminable  "History  of  Bristol,"  if 
that  has  any  bearing  on  the  question.  The  piece 
has  an  introduction  in  several  stanzas  followed  by 
a  spirited  chorus,  and  then  proceeds,  in  a  manner 
of  a  mask  (bearing,  in  fact,  considerable  resem- 
blance to  Mr.  Swinburne's  "Masque  of  Queen 
Bersabe"),  the  spirits  of  various  worthies  coming  in 
with  speeches  in  different  stanzas;  for  one  of  the 
most  amazing  things  about  this  amazing  boy  is  his 
facility  in  varying  stanzaic  and  metrical  forms,  in 


96  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

which  he  excels  any  preceding  English  poet.  In  this 
brief  poem,  for  instance,  there  are  eight  kinds  of 
stanzas,  of  which  two  are  wholly  of  Chatterton's 
invention  and  some  others  are  adapted  or  changed 
for  his  purpose.  The  introduction  ("Entroductyon 
bie  Queene  Mabbe")  begins  thus: 

Whan  from  the  erthe  the  sonnes  hulstred, 
Than  from  the  flouretts  straughte  with  dewe, 
Mie  leege  menne  makes  yee  awhaped 
And  wytches  theyre  wytchencref  doe. 
Then  ryse  the  sprytes  ugsome  and  rou, 
And  take  theyre  walke  the  letten  throwe. 

Than  do  the  sprytes  of  valourous  menne, 
Agleeme  along  the  barbed  halle; 
Pleasaunte  the  moultrynge  banners  kenne, 
Or  sytte  arounde  yn  honourde  stalle. 
Our  sprytes  atourne  theyr  eyne  to  nyghte, 
And  looke  on  Canynge  his  chyrche  bryghte. 

This  has  been  partly  modernized,  not  very  happily, 
for  Mr.  Skeats,  as  follows: 

When  from  the  earth  the  sun's  hulstred, 
Then,  from  the  flowrets  straught  with  dew, 
My  liege  men  make  you  awhaped, 
And  witches  then  their  witchcraft  do. ' 
Then  rise  the  sprites  ugsome  and  rou, 
And  take  their  walk  the  churchyard  through. 

Then  do  the  sprites  of  valorous  men 
Agleam  along  the  barbed  hall, 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  97 

Pleasant  the  moldering  banners  ken, 
Or  sit  around  in  honored  stall. 
Our  spirits  turn  their  eyes  to-night, 
And  looke  on  Canynge's  churche  bright. 

"Hulstred"  means  hidden,  "stra  light"  is  filled  or 
stretched,  "awhaped"  is  amazed,  "ugsome"  is 
ugly,  "rou"  is  rough,  "barbed"  means  adorned. 
Attempts  to  modernize  Chatterton  are  always  un- 
satisfactory. The  antique  words  of  his  usage  and 
the  words  he  coined  were  chosen  by  him  with  a 
musician's  delicate  sense  of  sound  value;  to  change 
them  always  impairs  the  harmony.  Whoever  would 
know  all  the  worth  of  Chatterton's  poetry  must 
take  the  slight  trouble  to  read  him  in  the  original. 
He  is  no  harder  than  Chaucer;  in  fact  I  think  easier 
than  Chaucer.  The  chief  requirement  is  to  observe 
a  small  glossary  that  might  be  printed  at  the  bottom 
of  each  page,  and  once  the  significance  of  the  strange 
words  is  learned  the  verse  appears  of  a  wonderful 
and  ethereal  quality  of  beauty.  It  should  be  borne 
in  mind  also  that  the  general  scheme  of  the  Rowley 
versification  is  often,  like  Chaucer's,  rhythmical,  not 
metrical.  Thus  in  this  introduction  the  natural 
readings  of  the  first  and  third  lines  (in  the  way  that 
Chatterton  undoubtedly  intended),  is 

Whan  from  the  erthe  the  son-nes  hulstred 
and 

Mie  leeg-e  menne  makes  yee  awhap-ed. 


98  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  maintain  these  essential 
rhythms  in  any  modernized  version. 

After  the  introduction  and  an  address  to  the  Bishop 
of  Worcester  the  "Spryte  of  Nymrodde"  speaks  in 
a  four-lined,  alternately  rhymed  stanza,  and  in  a 
manner  exactly  reproduced  from  the  old  moralities. 

Soon  as  the  morne  but  newlie  wake, 
Spyed  Nyghte  ystorven  lye: 
On  herre  corse  dyd  dew  droppes  shake, 
Then  fore  the  sonne  upgotten  was  I,  etc. 

"Ystorven"  means  dead.  It  will  be  seen  by  this 
example  that  there  is  nothing  very  difficult  about 
reading  Chatterton  after  the  eye  has  grown  accus- 
tomed to  the  strange  spelling  of  familiar  words. 

The  "Sprytes  of  Assyrians"  then  sing  a  chorus 
of  which  the  first  stanza  is 

Whan  toe  theyre  caves  aeterne  abeste, 
The  waters  ne  moe  han  dystreste 

The  worlde  so  large 

Butte  dyde  dyscharge 
Themselves  ynto  theyre  bedde  of  reste,  etc. 

The  spirits  of  eminent  men  then  speak  one  after 
another  of  themselves  and  their  deeds  on  earth, 
Elle  or  Aella,  the  mythical  Saxon  lord  of  Bristol 
(anciently  "Brystowe"  or  "Bright-stowe"),  and  hero 
of  some  of  the  Rowley  poems,  Fytz  Hardynge, 
Knyghtes,  Templars,  Frampton  and  others,  ending 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  99 

with  a  second  speech  by  Elle.  In  these  speeches 
we  find  for  the  first  time  what  may  be  called  the 
Rowleyan  stanza,  several  times  used  by  Chatterton 
in  these  poems,  consisting  of  ten  lines  rhymed  as 
follows:  a,  b;  a,  b,  b,  c;  b,  c,  c,  d,  d;  or,  not  to  use  a 
scheme  that  may  seem  too  technical,  the  first  line 
rhymes  with  the  third,  the  second  with  the  fourth, 
fifth  and  seventh;  the  sixth  with  the  eighth  and  the 
ninth  with  the  tenth.  We  may  take  for  an  example 
of  this  stanza  one  from  the  speech  of  Fytz  Hardynge : 

The  pypes  maie  sounde  and  bubble  forth  mie  name, 

And  tellen  what  on  Radclefte  syde  I  dyd: 

Trinytie  Colledge  ne  agrutche  mie  fame, 

The  fayrest  place  in  Brystowe  ybuylded. 

The  royalle  bloude  that  thorow  mie  vaynes  slydde 

Dyd  tyncte  mie  harte  wythe  manie  a  noble  thoughte; 

Lyke  to  mie  mynde  the  mynster  yreared, 

Wythe  noble  carvel  workmanshyppe  was  wroughte. 

Hie  at  the  deys,  lyke  to  a  kynge  on's  throne, 

Dyd  I  take  place  and  was  myself  alone. 

A  variation  of  this  stanza  appears  in  the  first  speech 
of  Aella  or  Elle,  wherein  is  exhibited,  by  the  way,  the 
strong  sense  for  illuminating  details,  the  feature  of 
Chatterton's  art  that  has  given  him  enduring  place 
among  the  colorists.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  painter, 
using  words  for  colors. 


100  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

There  sytte  the  canons;  clothe  of  sable  hue 
Adorne  the  boddies  of  them  everie  one; 
The  chaunters  whyte  with  scarfes  of  woden  blewe, 
And  crymson  chappeaus  for  them  toe  put  onne, 
Wythe  golden  tassyls  glyttrynge  yhne  the  sunne; 
The  dames  ynne  kyrtles  alle  of  Lyncolne  greene, 
And  knotted  shoone  pykes  of  brave  coloures  done: 
A  fyner  syghte  yn  sothe  was  never  seen. 

A  stage  like  this,  bright  with  colors,  and  a  back- 
ground of  the  varied  trappings  of  medievalism, 
aroused  the  full  strength  of  his  artistic  sympathies. 
He  could  paint  other  things  well,  but  these  and 
flowers  he  painted  best.  With  any  suggestion  of 
the  times  in  which  his  spirit  dwelt  he  was  instantly 
at  home.  He  could  see  knights  and  monks,  raised 
dais  and  banquet  hall,  charger  and  plume,  castle 
and  banner,  not  only  in  a  general  perspective  but 
with  a  richness  of  detail  unsurpassed  in  our  litera- 
ture. It  was  not  enough  that  he  should  see  the 
"chaunters"  dressed  in  "whyte";  the  picture  in 
his  mind  is  incomplete  without  the  blue  scarf,  the 
crimson  hat,  the  gold  tassels;  and  when  he  comes  to 
the  women  he  observes  the  ribbon-knots  on  their 
shoes  as  carefully  as  the  colors  of  their  gowns.  It 
is  this  particularity  of  detail,  and  especially  of  signifi- 
cant detail,  that  has  been  noted  as  the  most  effective 
element  in  the  art  of  two  great  modern  poets,  Rossetti 
and  Morris  —  the  power  to  seize  upon  and  use  the 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  101 

particulars  that  will  bring  before  the  mental  vision, 
clear,  vivid,  veritable,  the  scene  as  the  poet  saw  it. 
Keats,  and  many  others  since  him,  have  had  this 
great  gift  and  used  it  for  the  delight  of  generations; 
but  the  first  conspicuous  instance  of  it  in  our  poetry 
is  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  this  strange  boy  of  the 
charity  school. 

"The  Battle  of  Hastings"  has  a  rather  odd  history 
that  may  serve  to  show  us  with  what  kind  of  men 
Chatterton  was  dealing.  Two  versions  of  the  poem 
exist.  When  Chatterton  delivered  to  Barrett  the 
first  version  it  bore  a  note  under  the  title  that  it  was 
"wrote  by  Turgot,  the  Monk,  a  Saxon,  in  the  tenth 
century,  and  translated  by  Thomas  Rowlie,  parish 
preeste  of  St.  Johns,  in  the  city  of  Bristol,  in  the  year 
1465."  Barrett  accepted  this  without  question,  but 
soon  afterward  thought  (belatedly,  as  it  seems), 
he  should  like  to  see  some  of  the  originals  of  all  these 
treasures  and  asked  Chatterton  for  the  manuscript 
from  which  he  had  copied  "The  Battle  of  Hastings/* 
Chatterton  thereupon  admitted  that  he  himself  had 
written  "The  Battle  of  Hastings"  —  for  a  friend. 
But  he  cheered  the  surgeon  with  the  announcement 
that  he  had  another  poem  on  the  same  subject,  a 
copy  of  an  original  by  Rowley;  and  Barrett  asking 
him  for  this  second  poem,  after  a  time  Chatterton 
gave  him  version  No.  2,  with  the  title  "Battle  of 
Hastyngs,  by  Turgotus,  translated  by  Roulie  for 


102  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

W.  Canynge,  Esq."  In  order  to  accept  the  theory 
that  Barrett  was  an  innocent  dupe  we  are  obliged 
to  believe  that  he  saw  nothing  suspicious  in  this 
extraordinary  performance,  that  he  desisted  from 
his  pursuit  of  the  original,  that  Chatterton's  admis- 
sion of  the  authorship  of  the  first  poem  suggested 
nothing  to  the  surgeon  when  another  was  forthcoming, 
that  he  accepted  without  question  the  appearance  of 
these  impossible  Saxon  poets  and  modern  translators. 
One  in  whom  all  these  things  could  awaken  no  sus- 
picions would  seem  unsafe  to  be  at  large  unattended. 
Surely,  the  force  of  credulity  could  no  further  go. 
But  Barrett,  according  to  the  wonted  version  of  the 
story,  had  decided  that  Chatterton  was  stupid,  and 
the  comfortable  doctrine  is  advanced  that  such  a 
mind  once  reaching  a  conclusion  becomes  there- 
after a  very  Gibraltar  against  facts.  Years  after- 
ward, when  all  these  events  had  begun  slowly  to 
take  their  place  in  the  proper  perspective  and  the 
literary  world  was  beginning  to  see  how  marvelous 
a  mind  had  glowed  and  gone  out,  Barrett  still  assured 
those  that  came  to  Bristol  to  investigate  the  story 
that  Chatterton's  talents  "were  by  no  means  shin- 
ing." There  is  a  post-facto  flavor  to  this  assertion 
that  does  not  seem  eminently  satisfying,  but  I  give 
it  for  what  it  is  worth. 

The  first  version  of  "The  Battle  of  Hastings"  is 
in  a  ten-line  stanza,  but  different  from  the  stanza 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  103 

we  have  previously  examined.  The  course  of  the 
battle,  or  of  a  battle,  is  described  with  a  great  minute- 
ness to  the  middle  of  the  sixty-seventh  stanza,  where 
the  version  suddenly  breaks  off.  Two  stanzas  will 
suffice  to  give  an  indication  of  its  style  and  quality. 

Duke  Wyllyam  drewe  agen  hys  arrowe  strynge, 

An  arrowe  withe  a  sylver-hede  drewe  he; 

The  arrowe  dauncynge  in  the  ayre  dyd  synge, 

And  hytt  the  horse  Tosselyn  on  the  knee. 

At  this  brave  Tosslyn  threwe  his  short  horse-speare, 

Duke  Wyllyam  stooped  to  avoyde  the  blowe; 

The  yrone  weapon  hummed  in  his  eare, 

And  hitte  Sir  Doullie  Naibor  on  the  prowe; 
Upon  his  helme  soe  furious  was  the  stroke, 
It  splete  his  bever,  and  the  ryvets  broke. 

And  nowe  the  battail  closde  on  everych  syde, 
And  face  to  face  appeard  the  knyghts  full  brave; 
They  lifted  up  theire  bylles  with  myckle  pryde, 
And  manie  woundes  unto  the  Normans  gave. 
So  have  I  sene  two  weirs  at  once  give  grounde, 
White  fomyng  hygh  to  rorynge  combat  runne; 
In  roaryng  dyn  and  heaven-breaking  sounde, 
Burste  waves  on  waves,  and  spangle  in  the  sunne; 
And  when  their  myghte  in  burstynge  waves  is  fled, 
Like  cowards,  stele  alonge  their  ozy  bede. 

If  this  be  not  great  poetry  of  its  kind  there  is 
none  in  the  language. 

In  the  second  version,  which  is  written  in  a 
different  stanza,  there  is  much  description  of  an 


104  .       THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

inspired  order  of  beauty,  and  some  that  shows  us 
the  indebtedness  of  Keats  and  a  long  line  of  other 
colorists.  Take  for  instance  these  stanzas  on 
Kenewalchae,  wife  of  Adhelm,  a  knight  in  Harold's 
army: 

White  as  the  chaulkie  clyffes  of  Brittaines  isle, 
Red  as  the  highest  colour'd  Gallic  wine, 
Gaie  as  all  nature  at  the  mornynge  smile, 
Those  hues  with  pleasaunce  on  her  lippes  combine  — 
Her  lippes  more  redde  than  summer  evenynge  skyne, 
Or  Phoebus  rysinge  in  a  frostie  morne, 
Her  breste  more  white  than  snow  in  feeldes  that  lyene, 
Or  lillie  lambes  that  never  have  been  shorne, 
Swellynge  like  bubbles  in  a  boillynge  welle, 
Or  new-braste  brooklettes  gently  whyspringe  in  the  delle. 

Browne  as  the  fylberte  droppyng  from  the  shelle, 
Browne  as  the  nappy  ale  at  Hocktyde  game, 
So  browne  the  crokyde  rynges,  that  featlie  fell 
Over  the  neck  of  the  all-beauteous  dame. 
Greie  as  the  morne  before  the  ruddie  flame 
Of  Phoebus'  charyotte  rollynge  thro  the  skie, 
Greie  as  the  steel-horn 'd  goats  Conyan  made  tame, 
So  greie  appear'd  her  featly  sparklyng  eye; 
Those  eyne,  that  dyd  oft  mickle  pleased  look 
On  Adhelm  valyaunt  man,  the  virtues  doomsday  book. 

Barrett  had  also  the  "English  Metamorphoses" 
purporting  to  have  been  written  by  Rowley,  a  ver- 
sion in  the  Rowleyan  stanza  of  the  Legend  of 
Locrine  told  by  Spenser  in  the  "Faerie  Queene," 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  105 

(and  utilized  by  Mr.  Swinburne  in  his  extraordinary 
rhymed  tragedy)  relating  the  myth  of  the  origin  of  the 
River  Severn's  name.  It  has  interest  as  showing 
that  Chatterton  attentively  read  Spenser,  and  as 
exhibiting  the  facility  wherewith  he  bent  his  stanza 
to  all  purposes,  narrative  or  lyric.  But  of  this  we 
shall  see  still  more  remarkable  illustrations. 

One  other  of  these  productions  has  a  more  interest- 
ing history.  In  the  Rowleyan  romance  were  poems 
about  the  same  mythical  Aella  we  have  before  en- 
countered, lord  of  the  castle  at  Bristol,  victor  over 
the  Danes  in  the  battle  of  Watchet,  whose  mighty 
deeds  Rowley  was  supposed  to  sing.  Chatterton 
accordingly  favored  Barrett  with  a  copy  of  a  "  Songe 
to  Aella,"  as  a  work  of  Rowley's.  Barrett  asked 
for  the  original  manuscript.  The  next  day  Chatter- 
ton  returned  with  a  piece  of  parchment  on  which 
the  poem  was  written  in  a  clever  imitation  of  the 
ancient  chirography  and  in  the  manner  of  prose 
without  capitals  and  without  division  into  lines. 
The  ink  had  the  appearance  of  age  and  the  whole 
parchment  had  superficial  evidences  of  antiquity. 
The  writing  was  small  and  extremely  difficult  to 
make  out,  but  regular  and  all  in  keeping.  It  was 
noticed  that  the  manuscript  contained  some  varia- 
tions from  the  copy  that  Chatterton  had  offered  the 
day  before,  but  to  the  artless  Barrett,  this  fact 
again  seems  to  have  suggested  no  query.  We  are  to 


106  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

believe  he  entertained  no  doubt  that  he  was  handling 
some  of  the  veritable  handiwork  of  Thomas  Rowley, 
preserved  through  centuries  in  the  Muniment  Room 
of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  to  adorn  at  last  the  History  of 
Bristol. 

"  Songe  to  Aella,  Lorde  of  the  Castel  of  Brystowe 
ynne  Daies  of  Yore,"  it  is  called.  It  begins  thus: 

Oh  thou,  orr  whatt  remaynes  of  thee, 

Aella,  the  darlynge  of  futurity, 
Lett  thys  mie  songe  bolde  as  thie  courage  be, 

As  everlastynge  to  posteritye. 

Whanne  Dacya's  sonnes,  whose  hayres  of  bloude  redde  hue 
Lyche  kynge-cuppes  brastynge  wythe  the  morning  due, 

Arraung'd  ynne  dreare  arraie, 

Upponne  the  lethale  daie, 
Spredde  farre  and  wyde  onne  Watchets  shore; 

Than  dyddst  thou  furiouse  stande, 

And  bie  thie  valyante  hande 
Beesprengedd  all  the  mees  wythe  gore. 

About  the  time  that  Rowley  lived  in  Bristol  John 
Lydgate,  author  of  "London  Lyckpenny"  and  a 
poet  of  renown  and  merit,  was  dwelling  in  London. 
Chatterton,  as  an  ornament  to  the  Rowley  tissue 
that  his  fancy  had  woven,  imagined  his  hero  to  have 
sent  to  Lydgate  a  copy  of  the  "  Songe  to  Aella  "  and 
Lydgate  to  have  replied  upon  Rowley  with  a  metrical 
epistle  of  five  four-lined  stanzas,  and  this  also  he 
conveniently  added  to  the  store  already  in  the  hands 
of  Barrett. 


TWO   SPECIMENS   OF   CHATTERTON'S   WORK 

The  first  is  a  photographic  copy  of  the  parchment  that  Chatterton  gave 
to  Barrett,  purporting  to  be  the  original  of  a  poem  by  Rowley,  entitled 
The  Account  ofW.  Canynge's  Feast.  The  lines  shown  above  read  as  follows: 


The  dynne  of  angelles  doe  theie  keepe  ; 
Heie  stylle,  the  guestes  ha  ne  to  sale, 
Butte  nodde  yerthankes  andefalle  aslape. 
Thus  echone  daie  bee  I  to  deene, 
Cyf  Rowley,  Iscamm,  or  Tyb.  Gorges  be 
ne  seene. 


Thorowe  the  halle  the  belle  ban  sounde ; 
Byelecoyle  doe  the  Grave  beseeme; 
The  caldermcnnc  doe  sytte  arounde, 
Ande  snoffelle  oppe  the  cheorte  steeme. 
Lyche  asses  wylde  ynne  desarte  waste 
Swotelye  the  morncynge  ayre  doe  taste. 
Syke  keene  thie  ate  ;  the  minstrels  plaie, 

Beneath  are  the  arms  of  Canynge  as  designed  by  Chatterton.  They  are 
not  correctly  given  as  the  real  bearings  were  three  negroes'  heads. 

The  above  fac-simile  is  by  the  permission  of  the  British  Museum,  where 
the  originals  are  preserved.  The  parchment  is  artificially  discolored  to  give 
it  the  appearance  of  age,  but  so  carelessly  that  in  one  place  the  original  color 
is  plainly  to  be  seen.  The  writing  in  the  poem  is  in  red  ink  and  so  clear 
that  no  observant  person  could  fail  to  see  that  it  is  modern.  In  fact  the 
evidences  of  recent  manufacture  are  so  palpable  that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine 
how  Barrett  could  be  deceived  by  the  imposture. 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  107 

A  particularly  fine  specimen  of  his  work  of  these 
days  (about  his  sixteenth  year)  is  an  interlude  called 
"Goddwyn."  It  begins  with  this  list  of  the  "Per- 
sons Represented,"  from  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
on  this  occasion  Mr.  Canynge  enjoyed  at  the  Red 
Lodge  the  society  of  almost  the  entire  company  of 
Rowleyan  Sprites: 

Harolde,  bie  T.  Rowleie,  the  Aucthoure. 
Goddwyn,  Johan  de  Iscamme. 
Elwarde,  Syrr  Thybbot  Gorges. 
/I I stan,  Syrr  Alan  de  Vere. 
Kynge  Edwarde,  Mastre  Willyam  Canynge. 
Odhers  by  Knyghtes  Mynstrelles. 

The  form  is  mostly  a  ten-line  stanza,  different 
from  that  we  have  found  elsewhere,  alternate  lines 
being  rhymed  usually  until  the  last  two,  which  form 
a  couplet,  the  tenth  line  being  sometimes  an  Alex- 
andrine. But  there  are  variations  into  four,  six, 
and  twelve-line  stanzas.  To  give  an  idea  of  the 
spirited  manner  of  this  piece  I  quote  the  opening 
lines,  using  a  modernized  version,  but  com- 
mending the  original  to  any  reader  that  cares  to 
know  what  this  drama  really  is.  "Loverde"  means 
lord  and  "aledge  stand"  means  to  be  molified. 

God.   Harold! 

Har.  My  loverde! 

God.  O!  I  weep  to  think 

What  foemen  rise  up  to  devour  the  land. 


108  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

They  batten  on  her  flesh,  her  hearts  blood  drink, 

And  all  is  granted  from  the  royal  hand. 

Har.     Let  not  thy  grievance  cease  nor  aledge  stand. 

Am  I  to  weep  ?     I  weep  in  tears  of  gore. 

Am  I  betrayed  ?     So  should  my  burly  brand 

Depict  the  wrongs  on  him  from  whom  I  bore. 

The  subject  of  the  play  is  the  stirring  events  in 
the  last  days  of  Edward  the  Confessor  and  the  con- 
spiracy of  Goddwyn  and  Harold  to  defeat  the  plans 
of  William  of  Normandy.  There  is  an  amazing 
skill  of  character  painting  in  the  fragment  left  us 
of  this  play.  Harold  is  depicted  as  brave,  boisterous, 
quick-witted  and  violent,  a  kind  of  Saxon  Hotspur, 
but  Goddwyn  as  cold  and  crafty;  and  between  them 
the  saintly  character  of  King  Edward  struggles  with 
his  inherited  blood  of  battle.  The  whole  thing 
carried  out  on  the  lines  begun  would  have  been 
a  notable  achievement  in  any  time  by  any  hand. 
In  one  place  Harold  and  Goddwyn,  one  straining 
forward  and  the  other  holding  back,  are  conferring. 

God.     Harold,  what  wouldest  do  ? 

Har.  Bethink  thee  what. 

Here  lieth  England,  all  her  rights  unfree, 

Here  lie  the  Normans  cutting  her  by  lot, 

Restraining  every  native  plant  to  gre. 

What  would  I  do  ?     I  brondeous  would  them  sle, 

Tear  out  their  sable  hearts  by  rightful  breme: 

Their  death  a  means  unto  my  life  should  be, 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  109 

My  sprite  should  revel  in  their  heart-blood's  stream. 

Eftsoons  I  will  reveal  my  rageful  ire, 

And  Goddes  anlace  wield  in  fury  dire. 

God.     What  wouldst  thou  with  the  king  ? 

Har.  Take  off  his  crown : 

The  ruler  of  some  minister  him  ordain, 

Set  up  some  worthier  than  I  have  plucked  down 

And  peace  in  England  should  be  bray'd  again. 

Here  again  I  have  used  Mr.  Skeats's  moderniz- 
ing, which  is  probably  as  good  as  can  be  made;  but 
no  version  can  reproduce  the  strength  of  the  poet's 
own  work.  The  piece  is  broken  off  in  the  early 
part  of  the  action  and  still  more  deplorably  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  the  loftiest  flights  of  Chatterton's 
song  and  one  of  the  great  poems  of  all  times.  This 
is  the  famous  "Hymn  of  Liberty"  that  all  critics 
have  assigned  a  place  with  the  liberty  odes  of  Shelley, 
Coleridge,  and  Swinburne.  As  Chatterton  wrote  it 
the  swing  and  impetus  of  it  are  irresistible.  I 
give  it  here  reclothed  in  modish  attire,  but  do  so 
reluctantly,  looking  back  to  the  grace  and  power 
of  the  first  strange  words. 

When  Freedom,  drest  in  blood-stained  vest, 
To  every  knight  her  war-song  sung, 
Upon  her  head  wild  weeds  were  spread, 
A  gory  anlace  by  her  hung. 
She  danced  upon  the  heath, 
She  heard  the  voice  of  death. 


1 10  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Pale-eyed  Affright,  his  heart  of  silver  hue, 

In  vain  essayed  her  bosom  to  acale. 
She  heard,  unscared,  the  shrieking  voice  of  woe, 
And  sadness  in  the  owlet  shake  the  dale. 
She  shook  the  burled  spear, 
On  high  she  raised  her  shield, 
Her  foemen  all  appear 
And  fly  along  the  field. 

Power,  with  his  head  up-stretched  unto  the  skies, 

His  spear  a  sunbeam,  and  his  shield  a  star, 
While  like  two  burning  balefires  roll  his  eyes, 
Stamps  with  his  iron  feet,  and  sounds  to  war. 
She  sits  upon  a  rock, 
She  bends  before  his  spear, 
She  rises  from  the  shock, 
Wielding  her  own  in  air. 

Hard  as  the  thunder  doth  she  drive  it  on; 

Wit,  closely  wimpled,  guides  it  to  his  crown; 
His  long  sharp  spear,  his  spreading  shield  is  gone; 

He  falls,  and  falling  rolleth  thousands  down. 
War,  gore-faced  War,  by  Envy  armed,  arist, 

His  fiery  helmet  nodding  to  the  air, 
Ten  bloody  arrows  in  his  straining  fist  — 

And   here  the  great   chord   breaks   off,   the   music 
ceases. 

Few  songs  in  English  will  better  sustain  analysis 
for  consistent  design  and  imagination,  and  the  art 
of  its  music  is  wonderful;  it  sings  itself.  The  sym- 
bolism of  Force  as  the  eternal  foe  of  Liberty  creeping 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  ill 

upon  her  while  she  is  unaware  and  being  the  forerun- 
ner of  War,  and  of  War  springing  to  arms  when  by 
Liberty  Force  is  overthrown,  is  as  effective  as  has 
ever  been  conceived  on  this  subject.  What  puzzles 
all  judicious  readers  is  that  in  all  these  poems  there 
is  no  sign  of  an  immature  or  undeveloped  power. 
The  lines  are  forged  full  strength;  nothing  falls  short 
of  its  purpose  because  of  lack  of  a  grasp  upon  the 
instrument.  How  this  charity  school  boy  ever  came 
by  this  facility  is  a  mystery  as  great  as  the  mystery 
of  Shakespeare. 

To  Catcott,  Chatterton  presented  several  tran- 
scripts of  what  he  said  were  Rowley  poems.  To 
see  merely  the  copies  of  these  things  seems  to  have 
been  enough  to  throw  the  pewterer  into  rapturous 
delight.  He  never  asked  to  see  an  original  manu- 
script, never  questioned  the  authenticity  of  anything, 
never  suspected  that  he  was  being  gulled,  but  ap- 
plauded to  the  echo  each  new  revelation  of  Rowley's 
wondrous  skill.  Among  these  treasures  was  "The 
Tournament,"  of  which  Catcott  had  a  copy  in  Chat- 
terton's  hand-writing.  It  is  a  poem  sometimes  in 
the  Rowleyan  ten-line  stanza,  sometimes  in  other 
forms,  reciting  the  prowess  of  Simon  de  Burton,  the 
supposed  builder  of  the  original  church  on  the  site 
of  St.  Mary  RedclifFe,  and,  of  course,  a  figure  of 
traditional  importance  to  Bristol.  Burton  tilts  with 
many  knights,  including  Sir  John  de  Berghamme 


112  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  finally  with  the  Mysterious  Stranger,  who  had 
overthrown  many  other  opponents,  and  all  fall  before 
his  strength  and  skill.  The  thing  has  dramatic 
form  and  much  spirit  and  action,  but  chiefly  is 
esteemed  for  the  excellent  minstrels'  song  with  which 
it  comes  to  an  end  after  Sir  Simon  has  been  crowned 
king  of  the  tourney : 

Whann  Battayle,  smethynge  wythe  new  quickenn'd  gore, 
Bendynge  wythe  spoiles,  and  bloddie  droppynge  hedde, 
Dydd  the  merke  wood  of  ethe  and  rest  explore, 
Seekeynge  to  lie  onn  Pleasures  downie  bedde, 

Pleasure,  dauncyng  fromm  her  wbde, 

Wreathedd  wythe  floures  of  aiglintine, 

From  hys  vysage  washedd  the  bloude, 

Hylte  hys  swerde  and  gaberdyne,  etc. 

which  may  easily  be  modernized  as  follows: 

When  Battle,  smoking  with  new  quickened  gore, 
Bending  with  spoils  and  bloody  drooping  head, 
Did  the  dark  wood  of  ease  and  rest  explore, 
Seeking  to  lie  in  Pleasure's  downy  bed, 

Pleasure,  dancing  from  her  wood, 

Wreathed  in  flowers  of  eglantine, 

From  his  visage  washed  the  blood, 

Hid  his  sword  and  gaberdine,  etc. 

The  song  is  particularly  valuable  to  those  that 
follow  the  development  of  English  poetry,  from  its 
introduction  of  a  trochaic  foot  (long,  short),  in  the 
last  four  lines,  the  use  of  troches  being  very  rare 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  113 

before  Chatterton's  time,  and  the  form  followed  here, 
of  an  iambic  alternately  with  a  trochaic  movement 
(iambic  in  first  four  lines,  trochaic  in  last  four),  being 
without  precedent.  Its  use  in  latter-day  poems  may 
be  seen  in  Mr.  Swinburne's  "Litany  of  Nations" 
where  it  appears  with  powerful  effect. 

Catcott  also  came  into  possession  of  the  "  Bristowe 
Tragedie;  or,  the  Dethe  of  Syr  Charles  Bawdin," 
being  a  story  told  in  the  form  of  an  old  ballad  and 
an  impressive  instance  of  the  boy's  fairest  work. 
It  has  been  rightly  held  to  be  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful ballads  we  possess.  Some  of  the  pictures  in  it, 
as  that  of  the  procession,  have  never  been  surpassed 
for  clearness  and  vigor.  I  give  these  extracts  in 
the  original  form,  since  the  difficulties  of  reading  it 
are  very  slight: 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 

Han  wounde  hys  bugle  home, 
And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 

The  commynge  of  the  morne : 

Kynge  Edwarde  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes 

Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  greie; 
And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte 

Proclayme  the  fated  daie. 

"Thou'rt  righte,"  quod  hee,  "for,  by  the  Godde 

That  syttes  enthron'd  on  hyghe! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  hys  fellowes  twaine, 

To  daie  shall  surelie  die." 


114  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Thenne  wythe  a  jugge  of  nappy  ale 
Hys  Knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite; 

"Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to  daie 
Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state." 

Syr  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  lowe, 
Wythe  harte  brymm-fulle  of  woe; 

Hee  journey'd  to  the  castle-gate, 
And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe. 

But  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children  twaine, 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore, 

For  good  Sir  Charleses  lyfe. 

"O  goode  Syr  Charles!"  sayd  Canterlone, 

"  Badde  tydings  I  doe  brynge." 
"Speke  boldlie,  manne,"  sayd  brave  Syr  Charles, 

"Whatte  says  thie  traytor  kynge  ?" 

"I  greeve  to  telle,  before  yonne  sonne 

Does  fromme  the  welkin  flye, 
Hee  hathe  uponne  hys  honnour  sworne, 

Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die." 

"Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles, 

"Of  thatte  I'm  not  affearde; 
Whatte  bootes  to  lyve  a  little  space  ? 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prepar'd; 

"  Butt  telle  thye  kynge,  for  myne  hee's  not, 

I'de  sooner  die  to  daie 
Thanne  lyve  hys  slave,  as  manie  are, 

Tho*  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie." 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  115 

Thenne  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  tell  the  maior  straite 
To  gett  all  thynges  ynn  reddyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charles's  fate. 

Thenne  Maisterr  Canynge  saughte  the  kynge, 

And  felle  down  onne  hys  knee; 
"I'm  come,"  quod  hee,  "unto  your  grace 

To  move  your  clemencye." 

» 
Thenne  quod  the  kynge,  "youre  tale  speke  out. 

You  have  been  much  cure  friende; 
Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 

Wee  wylle  to  ytte  attende." 

"My  nobile  leige!  alle  my  request 

Ys  for  a  nobile  knyghte, 
Who,  tho'  mayhap  hee  has  donne  wronge, 

Hee  thoughte  ytte  stylle  was  ryghte: 

"Hee  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine, 

Alle  rewyn'd  are  for  aie; 
Yff  thatt  you  are  resolv'd  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to  daie." 

"Speke  nott  of  such  a  traytour  vile," 

The  kynge  ynne  furie  sayde; 
"Before  the  evening  starre  doth  sheene, 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde; 

"Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle, 

And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede: 
Speke,  Maister  Canynge!  whatte  thynge  else 

Att  present  doe  you  neede  ?" 


Il6  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

"My  nobile  leige,"  goode  Canynge  sayde, 
"Leave  justice  to  our  Godde, 

And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde; 
Be  thyne  the  olyve  rodde. 

"Was  Godde  to  serche  our  hertes  and  reines, 

The  best  were  synners  grete; 
Christ's  vycarr  only  knowes  ne  synne, 

Ynne  alle  thys  mortall  state. 

"Lette  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reigne, 
'Twylle  faste  thye  crowne  fulle  sure; 

From  race  to  race  thy  familie 
Alle  sov'reigns  shall  endure: 

"  But  yff  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Begirine  thy  infante  reigne, 
Thy  crowne  uponne  thy  childrennes  brows 

Wylle  never  long  remayne." 

"Canynge,  awaie!  thys  traytour  vile 
Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  mee; 

Howe  canst  thou  thenne  for  such  a  manne 
Intreate  my  clemencye  ? " 

"Mie  nobile  leige!  the  trulie  brave 

Wylle  val'rous  actions  prize, 
Respect  a  brave  and  nobile  mynde, 

Altho'  ynne  enemies." 

"Canynge,  awaie!   By  Godde  ynne  Heav'n 

Thatt  dydd  mee  being  gyve, 
I  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitt  of  breade 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve. 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  117 

"Bie  Marie,  and  alle  Seinctes  ynne  Heav'n, 

Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  laste;" 
Thenne  Canynge  dropt  a  brinie  teare, 

And  from  the  presence  paste. 

Wyth  herte  brymm-fulle  of  gnawynge  grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe, 
And  satt  hymm  downe  uponne  a  stoole, 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe. 

"Wee  alle  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles, 

"Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne; 
Deth  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 

Of  all  wee  mortall  menne. 

"Saye,  why,  my  friend,  thie  honest  soul 

Runns  overr  att  thyne  eye; 
Is  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 

Thatt  thou  doste  child-lyke  crye  ?" 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  "I  doe  weepe, 

Thatt  thou  soe  soone  must  dye, 
And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless  wyfe; 

'Tys  thys  thatt  wettes  myne  eye." 

"Thenne  drie  the  teares  thatt  out  thyne  eye 

From  godlie  fountaines  sprynge; 
Dethe  I  despise  and  alle  the  power 

Of  Edwarde,  traytor  kynge. 

"Whan  through  the  tyrant's  welcom  means 

I  shall  resigne  my  lyfe, 
The  Godde  I  serve  wylle  soone  provyde 

For  bothe  mye  sonnes  and  wyfe. 


Il8  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

"Before  I  sawe  the  lyghtsome  sunne, 

Thys  was  appointed  mee; 
Shall  mortal  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

Whatt  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee  ? 

"Howe  oft  ynne  battaile  have  I  stoode, 
Whan  thousands  dy'd  arounde; 

Whan  smokynge  streemes  of  crimson  bloode 
Imbrew'd  the  fatten'd  grounde: 

"Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  ev'ry  darte 

That  cutte  the  airie  waie, 
Myghte  nott  fynde  passage  toe  my  harte, 

And  close  myne  eyes  for  aie  ? 

"And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  feere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wanne  and  bee  dysmayde  ? 

Ne!  fromme  my  herte  flie  childyshe  feere, 
Bee  alle  the  manne  display'd. 

"My  honest  friende,  my  faulte  has  beene 
To  serve  Godde  and  my  prynce; 

And  thatt  I  no  tyme-server  am, 
My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce. 

"Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne, 

Of  parents  of  grete  note; 
My  fadre  dydd  a  nobile  armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote: 

"I  make  ne  doubte  butt  hee  ys  gone 

Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe; 
Where  wee  for  ever  shall  bee  blest 

From  oute  the  reech  of  woe : 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  119 

"Hee  taughte  mee  justice  and  the  laws 

Wyth  pitie  to  unite; 
And  eke  hee  taughte  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wronge  cause  fromme  the  ryghte: 

"Hee  taughte  mee  wythe  a  prudent  hande 

To  feede  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lette  mye  servants  dryve  awaie 

The  hungrie  fromme  my  doore: 

"And  none  can  saye  butt  alle  mye  lyfe 

I  have  hys  wordyes  kept; 
And  summ'd  the  actyonns  of  the  daie 

Eche  nyghte  before  I  slept." 

Quod  Canynge,  "'Tys  a  goodlie  thynge 

To  bee  prepar'd  to  die; 
And  from  thys  world  of  peyne  and  grefe 

To  Godde  ynne  Heav'n  to  flie." 

And  nowe  the  bell  beganne  to  tolle 

And  claryonnes  to  sounde; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses'  feete 

A  prauncing  onne  the  grounde: 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teeres  of  woe 

Wythe  loude  and  dysmalle  dynne. 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 

To  brynge  Syr  Charles  awaie, 
Whoe  turnedd  toe  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 

And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie: 


120  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

"I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe; 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above, 
And  teache  thye  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 

And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym  love: 

"Teache  them  to  runne  the  nobile  race 

Thatt  I  theyre  fader  runne: 
Florence!  shou'd  dethe  thee  take  —  adieu! 

Yee  officers,  leade  onne." 

Thenne  Florence  rav'd  as  anie  madde, 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere; 
"Oh!  staie,  mye  husbande!  lorde!  and  lyfe!" 

Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare. 

Tyll  tyredd  oute  wythe  ravynge  loud, 

Shee  fellen  onne  the  flore; 
Syr  Charles  exerted  alle  hys  myghte, 

And  march'd  fromm  oute  the  dore. 

Uponne  a  sledde  hee  mounted  thenne, 
Wythe  lookes  fulle  brave  and  swete; 

Lookes,  thatt  enshone  ne  more  concern 
Thanne  anie  ynne  the  strete. 

Before  hym  went  the  council-menne, 
Ynne  Scarlett  robes  and  golde, 

And  tassils  spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne, 
Muche  glorious  to  beholde: 

The  Freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 

Appeared  to  the  syghte, 
Alle  cladd  ynne  homelie  russett  weedes, 

Of  godlie  monkysh  plyghte: 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  121 

Ynne  diffraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 

Moste  sweetlie  theye  dydd  chaunt; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came, 

Who  tun'd  the  strunge  bataunt. 

Thenne  fyve-and-twentye  archers  came; 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende, 
From  rescue  of  Kynge  Henrie's  friends 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend. 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 

Drawne  onne  a  clothe-layde  sledde, 
Bye  two  blacke  stedes  ynne  trappynges  white, 

Wyth  plumes  uponne  theyre  hedde: 

Behynde  hym  fyve-and-twentye  moe 

Of  archers  stronge  and  stoute, 
Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande, 

Marched  ynne  goodlie  route: 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 

Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came, 

Who  tun'd  the  strunge  bataunt: 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne, 

Ynne  clothe  of  Scarlett  deck't; 
And  theyre  attendyng  menne  echone, 

Like  Easterne  princes  trickt: 

And  after  them,  a  multitude 

Of  citizenns  dydd  thronge; 
The  wyndowes  were  alle  fulle  of  heddes, 

As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge. 


122  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

At  the  grete  mynsterr  wyndowe  sat 
The  kynge  ynne  myckle  state, 

To  see  Charles  Bawdin  goe  alonge 
To  hys  most  welcom  fate. 

Soone  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe, 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare, 

The  brave  Syr  Charles  hee  dydd  stande  uppe 
And  thus  hys  wordes  declare: 

"Thou  seest  mee,  Edwarde!  traytour  vile! 

Expos'd  to  infamie; 
Butt  bee  assur'd,  disloyall  manne! 

I'm  greaterr  nowe  thanne  thee. 

"Bye  foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloude, 
Thou  wearest  nowe  a  crowne; 

And  hast  appoynted  mee  to  dye, 
By  power  nott  thyne  owne. 

"Thye  pow'r  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave! 

Shall  falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde"  — 
Fromme  out  of  hearynge  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the  sledde. 

Kynge  Edwarde's  soule  rush'd  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turn'd  hys  hedde  awaie, 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  saie: 

"To  hym  that  soe-much-dreaded  dethe 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne!  hee  spake  the  truthe, 

Hee's  greater  thanne  a  kynge!" 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  123 

"Soe  lett  hym  die!"     Duke  Richard  sayde; 

"And  maye  echone  oure  foes 
Bende  downe  theyre  necks  to  bloudie  axe, 

And  feede  the  canyon  crowes." 

And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drewe 

Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle; 
The  axe  dydd  glysterr  ynne  the  sunne, 

Hys  pretious  bloude  to  spylle. 

Syr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaffold  goe, 

As  uppe  a  gilded  carre 
Of  victorye,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 

Gayn'd  ynne  the  bloudie  warre. 


Thus  was  the  ende  of  Bawdin's  fate: 

Godde  prosper  longe  oure  kynge, 
And  grante  hee  maye,  wyth  Bawdin's  soule, 

Ynne  heav'n  Godd's  mercie  syngel 

The  boy  took  this  home  when  he  had  finished 
it  and  with  pride  showed  it  to  his  mother.  He  told 
her  he  had  written  it,  and  she  never  had  other  belief 
in  the  matter;  but  Catcott  instantly  ascribed  it  to 
Rowley,  and  despite  all  the  contrary  evidence  was 
to  the  end  of  his  life  unshakable  in  his  faith  in  that 
authorship. 

The  oddest  thing  is  that  the  story  the  ballad  relates 
is  historical,  though  in  all  Bristol  this  boy  was  prob- 
ably the  only  person  that  knew  that  fact,  and  how 


124  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

he  found  it  I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  "Syr  Charles 
Bawdin"  is  really  Sir  Baldwin  Fulford,  a  Lancas- 
trian, who  was  put  to  death  at  Bristol  in  1461  in  the 
following  manner: 

In  1460  (according  to  old  Stow,  the  chronicler) 
while  the  War  of  the  Roses  was  still  on,  "Richard, 
Lord  Rivers  [a  Lancastrian],  was  sent  to  Sandwich, 
to  keep  the  town  and  certain  great  ships  which  lay 
there  at  anchor;  but  when  the  Earl  of  Warwick  saw 
time  convenient  he  sent  some  of  his  men  to  Sand- 
wich by  night,  the  which  took  the  said  Lord  Rivers 
and  Anthony  Woodville,  his  son,  in  their  beds,  and  led 
them  over  to  Calais,  with  all  the  great  ships  save 
one  called  Grace  de  Dieu,  the  which  might  not  be 
had  away  because  she  was  broke  in  the  bottom. 
Sir  Baldwin  Fulford  undertook  on  pain  of  losing  his 
head  that  he  would  destroy  the  Earl  of  Warwick." 
It  appears  that  he  went  to  Calais  on  this  adventure 
and  it  failed,  and  while  he  was  returning  home  to 
arouse  the  people  against  Edward,  who  had  mean- 
time made  great  head  and  been  crowned  king,  he 
fell  into  his  enemies'  hands.  He  and  two  squires 
captured  with  him  were  imprisoned  in  Bristol 
Castle.  When  they  were  brought  to  trial  for  high 
treason  one  of  their  judges  was  William  Canynge, 
who  must  have  served  unwillingly  in  that  painful 
capacity,  for  the  judicial  murder  of  a  fellow-adherent 
of  the  lost  cause  was  no  light  matter  even  in  those 


THE  TRADE  OF  A  SCRIVENER  125 

callous  times.  All  that  Edward  wanted  was  to  have 
Fulford  put  out  of  the  way,  and  that  was  quickly 
achieved.  He  and  the  two  squires  were  beheaded 
almost  at  once.  After  the  restless  charity  school 
boy  had  passed  from  the  affairs  of  men  it  was  proved 
from  the  old  documents  of  St.  Ewin's  Church  (which 
was  once  Bristol  Minster),  that  King  Edward  was 
actually  in  Bristol  at  the  time  of  Fulford's  death. 
We  need  not  suppose  that  he  went  there  expressly  to 
attend  to  the  matter  of  murdering  the  knight,  for  he 
knew  that  work  would  be  performed  by  his  trusty 
men,  but  he  was  certainly  there,  the  church  was  cleaned 
in  honor  of  his  visit  to  it,  and  from  the  east  window 
he  might  have  witnessed  the  procession  to  the  block 
exactly  as  Chatterton  described.  It  seems  that  at 
the  time  the  "Bristowe  Tragedie"  was  written  no 
one  but  Chatterton  was  aware  of  the  king's  visit. 
In  the  face  of  such  startling  facts  as  these  I  do  not 
know  how  any  one  can  with  perfect  confidence  affirm 
any  theory  about  the  Chatterton  impostures.  He 
might  have  found  almost  anything  among  those 
documents  that  have  so  mysteriously  disappeared 
from  Barrett's  hands. 

One  other  thing:  His  prose  protest  against  the 
sacrilege  of  Churchwarden  Thomas  was  signed  "  Ful- 
ford, the  Grave  Digger."  Hence,  it  is  not  a  forced 
surmise  that  he  was  then  familiar  with  the  story  of 
Sir  Baldwin  Fulford,  although  he  was  then  only 


126  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

eleven  years  old.  Given  a  boy  that  at  eleven  knew 
of  the  ancient  history  of  his  native  town  more  than 
any  graybeard  knew  and  almost  anything  might  be 
expected  when  the  graybeards  imposed  upon  and 
beat  him. 


THE  RISING  FLAME 

YET  another  acquaintance  of  his  in  these  days  and 
another  butt  of  his  secret  ridicule  was  the  Rev. 
Alexander  Catcott,  vicar  of  the  Temple  Church 
at  Bristol,  and  a  brother  of  the  pewterer-antiquarian. 
Some  things  the  vicar  knew,  doubtless  —  Hebrew, 
for  instance,  in  which  he  was  reputed  one  of  the 
foremost  scholars  in  England  —  but  he  was  densely 
ignorant  of  the  literature  of  his  own  country,  par- 
ticularly of  its  poetry,  which  he  detested,  and  he 
was  a  firm  upholder  of  a  literal  interpretation  of  the 
story  of  Noah's  flood.  His  faith  was  no  holiday 
affair:  he  had  endured  for  it  the  pains  of  writing  an 
elaborate  book  in  its  defense,  and  he  had  a  collection 
he  was  pleased  to  call  geological  from  the  which  he 
offered  to  prove  his  doctrine  to  the  confusion  of  any 
skeptic.  He  had,  moreover,  certain  traits  of  mind 
calculated  to  add  to  the  concealed  satisfaction  of  a 
cynical  observer.  He  was  extremely  opinionated, 
narrow,  and  bigoted,  though  doubtless  well  enough 
meaning.  For  a  time  Chatterton  found  some 
pleasure  in  leading  this  good  man  into  the  intermi- 

127 


128  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

nable  bog  of  theological  debate,  wherein  the  rector 
probably  floundered  rather  amusingly.  For  himself 
Chatterton  had  long  made  up  his  mind  about  relig- 
ion, and  his  attitude  theretoward  was  almost  iden- 
tical with  the  creed  that  Shelley  afterward  held. 
That  is  to  say,  he  had  his  own  religion  of  faith  and 
practise,  dream  and  aspiration,  but  utterly  rejected 
all  the  dogmas  of  the  church  and,  indeed,  all  the 
supernatural  parts  of  Christianity.  He  used  to  go 
to  hear  the  Rev.  Mr.  Catcott's  sermon  of  a  Sunday 
morning  and  tell  him  in  the  afternoon  how  far  astray 
he  had  been  in  his  logic,  a  practise  to  which  the 
defender  of  Noah's  flood  was  not  partial.  Previ- 
ously Chatterton  had  formed  a  brief  acquaintance 
with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Broughton,  rector  of  his  own  St. 
Mary  RedclifFe,  but  Broughton  seems  to  have  been 
irritated  by  the  boy's  frankly  delivered  opinions;  they 
soon  quarreled  and  Chatterton  knew  him  no  more, 
but  became  a  regular  attendant  at  Temple  where 
his  friend  of  Noachian  fame  held  forth.  Therein 
he  had  other  purposes  than  to  be  instructed  con- 
cerning the  voyage  of  the  ark.  The  vicar  of  Temple 
had  books,  and  he  had  more,  an  influence  strong 
enough  to  get  the  boy  past  the  jealously  guarded 
gates  of  the  Bristol  Library,  or  that  is  to  say,  into 
Paradise.  This  being  presently  accomplished,  it 
may  be  supposed  that  his  interest  in  a  very  uninspir- 
ing acquaintance  came  to  an  end.  Yet  not  alto- 


THE  RISING  FLAME  129 

gether  so;  he  subsequently  satirized  the  vicar  in 
some  cutting  verses,  and  then,  with  characteristic 
good-heartedness,  regretted  them  and  hoped  the 
vicar  did  not  take  the  raillery  to  heart.  "When 
the  fit  is  on  me,"  he  said,  "I  spare  neither  friend 
nor  foe,"  and  thus  embalmed  the  name  of  one  that 
would  not  otherwise  linger  in  the  human  memory. 
In  one  respect,  Alexander  Catcott  had  more  wit 
than  his  brother:  he  knew  when  he  was  laughed 
at,  and  it  appears  that  to  forgive  an  injury  he  was 
not  so  ready  as  became  a  preacher  of  the  gospel. 

Once  inside  of  Bristol  Library,  the  boy  ranged  as 
far  as  his  time  would  permit.  Curious  evidences  of 
his  labors  still  exist  there.  One  of  the  treasures  of 
that  library  is  an  old  black  letter  Latin  Dictionary, 
called  "Promptorum  Puerorum,"  printed  at  Stras- 
burg,  part  of  it  in  1484  and  part  in  1496.  On  some 
of  the  pages  of  this  book  some  one  that  wrote  much 
like  Chatterton  has  been  hard  at  work,  making 
studies  and  copies  of  the  ancient  characters.  On 
one  page  appears  a  date,  "September,  1763,"  in 
the  old  letters,  and  elsewhere  another  date,  "4th  day 
July,  1463,"  four  times  repeated,  each  time  slightly 
enlarged  and  changed.  On  the  same  page  is 
"Liber  D.B.  ex  domo,"  done  in  the  old  char- 
acter, "D.  B."  being  the  initials  over  which  Chat- 
terton often  wrote.  On  the  margin  of  this  page  he 
has  worked  out  an  alphabet,  capitals  and  lower 


130  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

case,  and  on  other  pages  are  traces  of  his  busy  pen, 
including  some  practise  at  the  name  "Catcott,"  all 
in  imitation  of  the  black-letter  in  which  the  book  is 
printed.  Chatterton  wrote  in  a  very  clean,  clear, 
copper-plate  hand,  not  hard  to  recognize.  I  am 
certain  that  all  these  experiments  in  the  old  dic- 
tionary are  his. 

He  was  now  far  advanced  in  the  Rowley  poems 
and,  knowing  so  well  the  English  poetry  of  his  own 
and  other  times,  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  not 
perceive  the  art  worth  of  his  work.  He  deter- 
mined to  bring  some  of  it  to  the  test  of  such  criti- 
cism as  the  time  afforded.  James  Dodsley  of  Pall 
Mall,  of  a  family  whose  memory  is  green  for  its 
service  to  good  literature,  was  then  the  most  fa- 
mous publisher  and  bookseller  in  England.  He  was 
of  much  wealth,  some  liberality  of  taste,  rather  un- 
usual repute  for  scholarly  inclinings  and  of  solitary 
and  eccentric  habits.  His  business  training  had 
doubtless  been  stern  in  the  ways  of  convention.  He 
must  have  been  somewhat  astonished,  therefore,  at 
two  letters  that  he  received  about  this  time  from 
an  unknown  correspondent  in  Bristol.  The  first 
read  as  follows: 

BRISTOL,  December  21,  1768. 

SIR,  —  I  take  this  method  to  acquaint  you  that  I  can  procure 
copys  of  several  Ancient  Poems:  and  an  interlude,  perhaps  the 
oldest  dramatic  piece  extant;  wrote  by  one  Rowley,  a  priest  in 


THE  RISING  FLAME  131 

Bristol,  who  lived  in  the  reigns  of  Henry  Vlth  and  Edward  IVth. 
If  these  pieces  will  be  of  service  to  you,  at  your  command  copys 
will  be  sent  to  you  by, 

Yr  most  obedient  serv1, 

D.  B. 

Please  to  direct  for  D.  B.,  to  be  left  with  Mr.  Thos.  Chatterton, 
Redcliffe  Hill,  Bristol. 

To  this  polite  overture  Dodsley  returned  no 
answer.  Chatterton,  not  discouraged,  renewed  the 
attack  in  a  second  letter,  February  15,  1769.  There 
were  reasons  why  of  all  publishers  he  should  fix  upon 
Dodsley  as  the  man  likeliest  to  suit  his  purposes, 
for  Dodsley  was  believed  in  those  days  to  have 
abnormal  knowledge  of  and  interest  in  ancient 
literature.  But  in  the  interim  the  boy  must  have 
turned  over  in  his  mind  the  possible  reasons  why  his 
first  communication  had  been  neglected.  It  seemed 
to  him  likely  that  the  trouble  lay  in  the  undue 
brevity,  initialed  signature,  and  lack  of  detail  in 
his  letter.  So  in  his  next  communication  he  reme- 
died these  defects  in  artless  fashion  and  produced 
an  epistle  calculated  to  astonish  any  recipient.  He 
wrote  as  follows: 

SIR,  —  Having  intelligence  that  the  Tragedy  of  Aella  was  in 
being,  after  a  long  and  laborious  search,  I  was  so  happy  as  to 
attain  a  sight  of  it.  Struck  with  the  beauties  of  it,  I  endeavoured 
to  obtain  a  copy  of  it  to  send  to  you;  but  the  present  possessor 
absolutely  denies  to  give  me  one,  unless  I  give  him  a  Guinea  for  a 
consideration.  As  I  am  unable  to  procure  such  a  sum,  I  made 


132  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

search  for  another  copy,  but  unsuccessfully.  Unwilling  such  a 
beauteous  Piece  should  be  lost,  I  have  made  bold  to  apply  to  you; 
several  Gentlemen  of  learning,  who  have  seen  it,  join  with  me  in 
praising  it.  I  am  far  from  having  any  mercenary  views  for  my- 
self in  this  affair,  and,  was  I  able,  would  print  it  at  my  own  risque. 
It  is  a  perfect  Tragedy;  the  plot  clear,  the  language  spirited,  and 
the  Songs  (interspersed  in  it)  are  flowing,  poetical  and  elegantly 
simple;  the  similes  judiciously  applied,  and  though  wrote  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VI,  not  inferior  to  many  of  the  present  age.  If  I 
can  procure  a  copy,  with  or  without  the  gratification,  it  shall 
immediately  be  sent  to  you.  The  motive  that  actuates  me  to  do 
this  is,  to  convince  the  world  that  the  Monks  (of  whom  some  have 
so  despicable  an  opinion)  were  not  such  blockheads  as  generally 
thought,  and  that  good  poetry  might  be  wrote  in  the  dark  days  of 
superstition,  as  well  as  in  these  more  enlightened  ages.  An  im- 
mediate answer  will  oblige.  I  shall  not  receive  your  favour  as  for 
myself  but  as  your  agent. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

P.  S.  —  My  reason  for  concealing  my  name  was  lest  my  master 
(who  is  now  out  of  town)  should  see  my  letters,  and  think  I  neg- 
lected his  business.  Direct  for  me  on  Redcliffe  Hill. 

With  this  he  sent  an  extract  from  the  tragedy. 
At  a  bald  proposition  to  forward  a  guinea  to  a  youth 
of  whom  he  had  no  knowledge  Dodsley  might  well 
be  startled.  Naturally  he  did  not  respond  with  the 
guinea,  and  if  he  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the 
letter  the  boy  kept  the  answer  to  himself.  The  prim 
and  precise  bookseller  of  Pall  Mall  was  not  likely 
to  be  impressed  favorably  with  a  youth  that  was 


THE  RISING  FLAME  133 

avowedly  misusing  his  master's  time,  and  the 
"Tragedy  of  Aella"  was  not  given  to  the  world 
through  the  famous  Dodsley. 

And  yet  he  had  never  in  his  career  published  any- 
thing greater,  and  if  the  extract  he  received  made 
any  just  representation  of  the  piece  it  is  incompre- 
hensible how  he  failed  to  see  that  whether  Rowley 
were  true  or  false  here  was  a  most  extraordinary 
piece  of  work.  For  the  "Tragedy  of  Aella"  is  not 
only  the  greatest  of  all  the  Rowley  poems,  but  a  work 
that  purporting  to  be  of  any  age  from  any  hand 
would  be  recognized  now  as  the  certain  product  of 
genius.  In  that  age  it  shines  like  a  diamond  in  an 
ash-heap.  Nothing  comparable  with  it  had  been 
written  since  Milton;  nothing  equal  to  it  came  after- 
ward until  Shelley. 

It  has  long  been  the  custom  to  refer  to  the  works 
of  Chatterton  as  wonderful  for  a  boy.  In  truth, 
mostly  they  would  be  wonderful  for  a  man.  Even 
now  when  the  purely  artistic  view  of  poetry  (of  which 
he  was  the  first  exponent)  has  so  many  years  domi- 
nated and  developed  our  verse  and  carried  it  along 
the  undreamed-of  ways  to  heights  equal  with  its 
sister  arts,  it  is  impossible  to  read  with  attention  the 
"Tragedy  of  Aella "  without  being  moved  to  admira- 
tion of  its  sheer  art  and  exquisite  workmanship. 

This  is  the  story:  Aella  is  the  Saxon  lord  of  the 
Castle  of  Bristol,  a  great  warrior  and  leader.  He 


134  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

has  taken  to  wife  Birtha,  young,  high-born,  and 
beautiful.  On  their  wedding-night,  when  with  song 
and  chorus  the  minstrels  are  entertaining  the  ban- 
queters at  the  wedding  feast,  news  comes  that  the 
Dacians  (or  Danes)  have  landed  and  are  ravaging 
the  coast.  Aella,  in  spite  of  his  bride's  entreaties, 
seizes  his  arms  and  rushes  away  to  the  war.  In  a 
great  battle  at  Watchet  he  meets  and  routs  the 
Danish  army,  and  having  meantime  burned  the 
Danish  fleet  he  has  the  invaders  at  his  mercy. 

His  lieutenant,  Celmonde,  has  long  been  secretly 
in  love  with  Birtha.  With  gloomy  and  lago-like 
malice  he  has  watched  the  wedding  festivities, 
and  from  the  war  he  thinks  to  win  either  the 
woman  he  loves  or  revenge  for  his  disappointment. 
He  is  brave  enough,  but  bad.  At  once  after 
the  battle  of  Watchet  he  takes  horse  and  rides  at 
great  speed  to  Bristol.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  reaches  the  castle,  and  tells  Birtha  that 
Aella,  sorely  wounded,  has  sent  for  her.  In  a  frenzy 
of  fear  she  runs  from  the  castle  without  delaying  to 
tell  her  serving  woman.  Celmonde  is  to  guide  her 
to  the  spot  where  Aella  lies.  In  the  dark  woods  he 
seizes  her  and  declares  his  passion.  She  struggles 
from  him  and  screams  for  help.  A  band  of  fugitive 
Danes  with  their  leader,  Hurra,  hear  her.  Celmonde 
fights  desperately  against  overwhelming  odds  and 
slays  many,  but  is  slain  by  Hurra.  The  Danes  learn 


THE  RISING  FLAME  135 

that  they  have  in  hand  the  wife  of  the  man  that 
defeated  them,  but  magnanimously  protect  her  and 
undertake  to  lead  her  to  Aella's  camp. 

But  in  the  meantime  Aella  has  come  home  in 
triumph  to  share  with  his  bride  the  news  and  glory 
of  the  great  victory.  He  finds  that  Birtha  has  gone 
away  with  a  knight  and  none  knows  whither.  Con- 
vinced that  she  has  proved  false  he  stabs  himself. 
As  he  lies  on  his  bed  Birtha  comes  in.  They  are 
reconciled,  but  Aella  dies  of  his  wound,  and  Birtha, 
flinging  herself  upon  his  body,  dies  of  grief. 

After  the  strength  and  interest  of  the  story  and 
the  dramatic  power  of  its  unfolding,  the  first  impres- 
sion this  play  makes  on  us  is  of  the  infinite  skill  of 
its  handling  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  difficult 
stanza.  This  is  the  Rowleyan  ten-line  stanza  used 
elsewhere,  but  not  as  here  with  masterly  strength 
and  art  in  terse,  rapid,  and  at  times  impassioned 
dialogue.  I  will  give  a  specimen  of  this  peculiar 
achievement.  Aella  has  reached  his  door  after  his 
return  from  the  battle  of  Watchet.  Egwina,  Birtha's 
tiring  woman,  meets  him. 

Egwina.     Oh  Aella! 

Aella.  Ah!  that  semmlykeene  *  to  mee 

Speeketh  a  legendary  tale  of  woe. 

Eg,     Birtha  is  — 

Ael.  Whatt  ?  where  ?  how  ?  saie,  whatte  of  shee  ? 

1  Appearance. 


136  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Eg.    Gone  — 

A  el.  Gone!  ye  goddes! 

Eg.  Alas!  ytte  ys  toe  true. 

Yee  seynctes,  hee  dies  awaie  wythe  myckle  woe! 
Aella!  what?  Aella!  oh!  hee  lyves  agen! 
A  el.     Cal  mee  notte  Aella;  I  am  hymme  ne  moe. 
Where  ys  shee  gon  awaie?    Ah!  Speake!  how?  when? 
Eg.     I  will. 

A  el.     Caparyson  a  score  of  stedes;  flie,  flie! 
Where  ys  shee  ?  Swythynne  *  speeke,  or  instante  thou  shalt  die. 

These  lines  constitute  one  Rowleyan  stanza. 
The  play  bears  title  as  follows: 

Aella, 

A  Tragycal  Enterlude, 
or  Discoorseynge  Tragedie, 

Wrotenn  bie 
Thomas  Rowleie; 
Plaiedd  before 
Mastre  Canynge, 

Atte  hys  howse  nempte  the  Rodde  Lodge; 
Alsoe  before  the  Duke  of  Norfolck, 
Johan  Howard. 

In  all  England  there  was  not  at  that  time  enough 
scholarship  to  know  that  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV 
the  only  theatrical  performances  were  religious 
Mystery  or  Miracle  plays  done  by  monks  in  the 
churches,  and  that  such  a  thing  as  a  secular  play 
was  unknown  until  almost  a  century  later.  Hun- 

i  Quickly. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  137 

dreds  of  men  from  the  universities  knew  the  his- 
tories of  the  Greek  and  Roman  dramas  and  could 
discourse  learnedly  about  Greek  prosody,  and  not 
one  knew  the  drama  of  his  own  country  or  the 
history  of  his  country's  language. 

There  are  thirteen  different  measures  in  "Aella," 
all  (except  the  blank  verse  and  the  quatrain)  being 
innovations  in  our  metrical  systems.  First  come,  in 
different  measures,  two  letters  to  Canynge  purport- 
ing to  have  been  written  by  Rowley  and  signed  with 
his  name.  The  second  hints  at  the  theory,  held  by 
Chatterton,  of  poetry  as  an  art;  that  is,  of  art  poetry 
as  distinguished  from  mere  verse.  "Verse  may  be 
good,"  he  says,  "but  poetry  wants  more,  a  boundless 
subject  and  a  worthy  song  of  it";  and  he  rails  at  the 
scholars  that  hold  to  a  literal  view  of  everything 
and  have  no  idealism.  "Instead  of  mounting  on  a 
winged  horse,"  he  goes  on,  having  an  eye  to  the  rule- 
and-compass  poetasters  of  his  own  day,  "You  on  a 
cart-horse  drive  in  doleful  course." 

1  Canynge  and  I  from  common  course  dissent, 
We  ride  the  steed,  but  give  to  him  the  rein, 

Nor  will  between  crazed  moldering  books  be  pent, 
But  soar  on  high,  amid  the  sunbeams'  sheen. 

"An  Entroductionne"  of  two  stanzas  follows,  and 
then  the  "Personnes  Represented": 

1  Modernized. 


138  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

A ella,       bie  Thomas  Rowleie,  Preeste,  the  Aucthoure. 
Celmonde,       John  Iscamm,  Preeste. 
Hurra,  Syrr  Thybbotte  Gorges,  Knyghte. 

Birtba,  Mastre  Edwarde  Canynge. 

Odherr  Parties  bie  Knyghtes,  Mynstrelles,  &f<r. 

The  play  begins  with  a  brief  soliloquy  by  Celmonde 
in  which  he  resents  his  fate  that  he  must  see  the 
woman  he  has  loved  become  the  wife  of  another,  and 
then  follow  the  wedding  festivities,  varied  with  songs 
that  are  among  the  ablest  examples  of  Chatterton's  art. 
Few  English  poets  have  had  equal  power  over  melodi- 
ous speech  and  few  have  had  so  much  prescience 
about  the  subtle  co-relations  between  music  and 
poetry.  Indeed,  the  purely  musical  phase  of  modern 
English  poetry  may  be  said  to  have  begun  with  him. 
•  The  first  of  the  songs  in  "Aella"  is  a  simple 
pastoral  dialogue  between  a  country  maiden  and  her 
swain,  but  the  lilt  of  it  is  extraordinary,  the  effect 
being  managed  to  some  degree  through  the  use  of 
the  trochaic  measure,  the  musical  possibilities  of 
which  Chatterton  was  the  first  to  discover. 

Tourne  thee  to  thie  Shepsterr  swayne ; 
Bryghte  sonne  has  ne  droncke  the  dewe 
From  the  floures  of  yellowe  hue; 
Tourne  thee,  Alyce,  backe  agayne. 

No,  bestoikerre,  I  wylle  go, 
Softlie  tryppynge  o'ere  the  mees, 
Lyche  the  sylver-footed  doe, 
Seekeynge  shelterr  yn  grene  trees. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  139 

See  the  moss-growne  daisey'd  banke, 
Pereynge  ynne  the  streme  belowe; 
Here  we'lle  sytte,  yn  dewie  danke; 
Tourne  thee,  Alyce,  do  notte  goe. 

It  is  chiefly  the  spelling  that  is  a  bar  to  the  easy 
reading  and  swift  appreciation  of  Chatterton.  To 
modernize  these  stanzas  requires  scarcely  an  effort. 
If  we  know  that  "  bestoikerre "  means  deceiver  and 
"mees"  means  meadows,  there  is  not  a  line  in  it 
that  cannot  be  understood  by  a  child. 

Aella  praises  the  song,  but  asks  for  one  that  "mar- 
riage blessings  tells." 

"In  marriage,  blessings  are  but  few,  I  trowe," 
comments  the  embittered  Celmonde  in  a  cynical 
aside.  The  minstrels  sing: 

Fyrste  Mynstrelle 

The  boddynge  flourettes  bloshes  atte  the  lyghte, 
The  mees  be  sprenged  wyth  the  yellowe  hue; 
Ynn  daiseyd  mantels  ys  the  mountayne  dyghte; 
The  nesh  yonge  coweslepe  bendethe  wyth  the  dewe; 
The  trees  enlefed,  yntoe  Heavenne  straughte, 
Whenn  gentle  wyndes  doe  blowe,  to  whestlyng  dynne  ys  broughte. 

The  evenynge  commes,  and  brynges  the  dewe  alonge; 
The  roddie  welkynne  sheeneth  to  the  eyne; 
Arounde  the  alestake  Mynstrelles  synge  the  songe; 
Yonge  ivie  rounde  the  doore  poste  do  entwyne; 
I  laie  mee  onn  the  grasse;  yette,  to  mie  wylle, 
Albeytte  alle  ys  fayre,  there  lacketh  somethynge  stylle. 


I40  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Second  Mynstrelle 

So  Adam  thoughtenne,  whann,  ynn  Paradyse, 
All  Heavenn  and  Erthe  dyd  hommage  to  hys  mynde; 
Ynn  Womman  alleyne  mannes  pleasaunce  lyes; 
As  instrumentes  of  joie  were  made  the  kynde. 
Go,  take  a  wyfe  untoe  thie  armes,  and  see 
Wynter,  and  brownie  hylles,  wyll  have  a  charme  for  thee. 

Tbyrde  Mynstrelle 

Whanne  Autumpne  blake  and  sonne-brente  doe  appere, 
Wyth  hys  goulde  honde  guylteynge  the  falleynge  lefe, 
Bryngeynge  oppe  Wynterr  to  folfylle  the  yere 
Beerynge  uponne  hys  backe  the  riped  shefe; 
Whan  al  the  hyls  wythe  woddie  sede  ys  whyte; 
Whanne  levynne-fyres  and  lemes  do  mete  from  far  the  syghte; 

Whann  the  fayre  apple,  rudde  as  even  skie, 
Do  bende  the  tree  unto  the  fructyle  grounde; 
When  joicie  peres,  and  berries  of  blacke  die, 
Doe  daunce  yn  ayre,  and  call  the  eyne  arounde; 
Thann,  bee  the  even  foule,  or  even  fayre, 
Meethynckes  mie  hartys  joie  ys  steynced  with  somme  care. 

Second e  Mynstrelle 

Angelles  bee  wrogte  to  bee  of  neidher  kynde; 
Angelles  alleyne  fromme  chafe  desyre  bee  free: 
Dheere  ys  a  somwhatte  evere  yn  the  mynde, 
Yatte,  wythout  wommanne,  cannot  stylled  bee; 
Ne  seyncte  yn  celles,  botte,  havynge  blodde  and  tere, 
Do  fynde  the  spryte  to  joie  on  syghte  of  wommanne  fayre: 

Wommen  bee  made,  notte  for  hemselves  botte  manne, 
Bone  of  hys  bone,  and  chyld  of  hys  desire; 
Fromme  an  ynutylle  membere  fyrste  beganne, 


THE  RISING  FLAME  141 

Ywroghte  with  moche  of  water,  lyttele  fyre; 
Therefore  theie  seke  the  fyre  of  love,  to  hete 
The  milkyness  of  kynde,  and  make  hemselves  complete. 

Albeytte,  wythout  wommen,  menne  were  pheeres 
To  salvage  kynde,  and  wulde  botte  lyve  to  slea, 
Botte  wommenne  efte  the  spryghte  of  peace  so  cheres, 
Tochelod  yn  Angel  joie  heie  Angeles  bee; 
Go,  take  thee  swythyn  to  thie  bedde  a  wyfe, 
Bee  bante  or  blessed  hie  yn  proovynge  marryage  lyfe. 

It  may  seem  superfluous  to  attempt  any  modern 
version  of  this  beautiful  poem,  since  with  slight 
changes  in  its  spelling  most  of  the  words  are  familiar 
in  our  every-day  speech;  but  to  show  how  this  is 
and  to  ease  the  reading  I  give  some  of  the  most 
significant  stanzas  a  garb  more  familiar  if  less 
harmonious : 

When  Autumn  bleak  and  sunburnt  doth  appear, 
With  his  gold  hand  gilding  the  falling  leaf, 
Bringing  up  Winter  to  fulfil  the  year, 
Bearing  upon  his  back  the  ripened  sheaf, 
When  all  the  hills  with  woolly  seed  are  white, 
When  lightning-fires  and  gleams  do  meet  from  far  the  sight; 

When  the  fair  apples,  red  as  evening  sky, 
Down  bend  the  tree  unto  the  fruitful  ground, 
When  juicy  pears  and  berries  of  black  dye 
Do  dance  in  air,  and  call  the  eyes  around; 
Then,  be  the  evening  foul  or  be  it  fair, 
Methinks  my  heart's  delight  is  marred  with  some  dark  care. 


142  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

And  the  last  stanza: 

Albeit,  without  woman,  men  were  peers 
To  savage  kind,  and  would  but  live  to  slay; 
But  woman  that  the  soul  of  peace  so  cheers, 
Wrapped  in  angelic  joy  wings  her  high  way; 
Go,  take  thee  quickly  to  thy  bed  a  wife, 
Be  cursed  or  highly  blessed  in  proving  married  life. 

This  song  of  the  seasons  is  followed  by  "Anodher 
Mynstrelles  Songe,"  attributed  to  Syr  Thybbot 
Gorges.  It  has  the  swinging  beat  and  exquisite 
musical  adjustment  that  characterize  all  the  Rowley 
lyrics.  For  the  meter  there  are  in  a  way  two  English 
precedents,  something  like  it  though  crudely  wrought, 
one  to  be  found  in  that  curious  and  mysterious  four- 
teenth century  exotic,  "The  Coke's  Tale  of  Game- 
lyn,"  once  ascribed  to  Chaucer;  the  other  in  the  old 
English  ballad,  "The  Blind  Beggar's  Daughter  of 
Bednall  Green."  But  while  these  two  unknown 
poets  made  some  use  of  the  amphibrach  foot  as  here, 
Chatterton  was  the  first  of  modern  singers  to  perceive 
the  musical  potentialities  of  occasional  syncopation, 
and  to  weave  it  into  a  melody,  here  extremely  blithe- 
some and  taking: 

As  Elynour  bie  the  green  lesselle  *  was  syttynge, 

As  from  the  sones  hete  she  harried,2 
She  sayde,  as  herr  whytte  hondes  whyte  hosen  was  knyttynge, 

What  pleasure  ytt  ys  to  be  married! 

1  lesselle  —  lattice.  2  harried  —  hurried. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  143 

Mie  husbande,  Lorde  Thomas,  a  Forrester  boulde, 

As  ever  clove  pynne,1  or  the  baskette, 
Does  no  cherysauncys  2  from  Elynour  houlde, 

I  have  ytte  as  soone  as  I  aske  ytte. 

Whann  I  lyved  wyth  my  fadre  yn  merrie  Clowd-dell, 
Tho'  twas  at  my  liefe  3  to  mynde  spynnynge, 

I  stylle  wanted  somethynge,  botte  whatte  ne  coulde  telle, 
Mie  lorde  fadres  barbde  4  haulle  han  ne  wynnynge.5 

Eche  mornynge  I  ryse,  doe  I  sette  mie  maydennes, 

Somme  to  spynn,  somme  to  curdell,  somme  bleachynge, 

GyflF8  any  new  entered  doe  aske  for  mie  aidens,7 
Thann  swythynne  8  you  fynde  mee  a  teachynge. 

Lorde  Walterre,  mie  fadre,  he  loved  me  welle, 

And  nothynge  unto  mee  was  nedeynge, 
Botte  schulde  I  agen  goe  to  merrie  Cloud-dell 

In  sothen  9  twoulde  bee  wythoute  redeynge.10 

Shee  sayde,  and  lorde  Thomas  came  over  the  lea, 
As  hee  the  fatte  derkynnes  u  was  chacynge, 

Shee  putte  uppe  her  knyttynge,  and  to  hym  wente  shee; 
So  wee  leave  hem  bothe  kyndelie  embracynge. 

Here    and   there    in   the   tragedy  are  stanzas   of 
extraordinary   beauty  and   strength.     For  instance, 

1  Clove  pin  or  the  basket  refers  to  targets  at  rustic  archery  matches. 

2  cherisauncys  —  comforts.  •*  liefe  —  at  my  choice. 
4  barbde  haulle  —  hall  hung  with  armor. 

6  Wynnynge  —  could  not  be  won  there. 

6Gyff  —  If.  i  Aidens  —  Help. 

8  Swythynne  —  Quickly.  9  Sothen  —  faith. 

10  Redeynge  —  redeing.    The  line  means  "In  faith  it  would  be  without  good 
counsel,  ill-advised."  u  Derkynnes  —  deer. 


144  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

in  a  soliloquy  of  Celmonde's  just  after  Aella  has 
gone  forth  to  meet  the  Danes: 

Hope,  holy  sister,  sweeping  through  the  skies, 
In  crown  of  gold,  and  robe  of  lily  white 
That  broadly  on  the  gentle  breezes  flies, 
Meeting  from  distance  the  enraptured  sight, 
Although  thou  often  takest  thy  high  flight 
Wrapped  in  a  mist. and  with  thy  sweet  eyes  blind, 
Now  comest  thou  to  me  with  starry  light; 
Unto  thy  vest  red  sunbeams  thou  dost  bind; 
The  Summer-tide,  the  month  of  May,  appear 
With  cunning  skill  upon  thy  wide  robe  painted  clear.1 

Aella  delivers  a  tremendous  battle  speech  be- 
fore his  army,  a  speech  that  makes  one  think 
of  Shakespeare's  Henry  before  the  battle  of 
Agincourt,  really  a  great  speech.  I  quote  the  end 
of  it: 

I  say  no  more;  your  souls  the  rest  will  say, 
Your  souls  will  show  that  Bristol  is  their  place; 
To  honor's  house  I  need  not  mark  the  way, 
In  your  own  hearts  ye  may  the  foot-path  trace. 
Tween  fate  and  us  there  is  but  little  space; 
The  time  is  now  to  prove  yourselves.     Be  men! 
Draw  forth  the  burnished  bill  with  festive  grace! 
Rouse,  like  a  wolf  when  rousing  from  his  den! 
Thus  I  pluck  forth  my  weapon!     Go,  thou  sheath! 
I'll  put  it  not  in  place  till  it  is  sick  with  death! 

1  This  and  other  selections  following  I  have  modernized. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  145 

Soldiers.     On,  Aella,  on!     We  long  for  bloody  fray, 
We  long  to  hear  the  raven  sing  in  vain. 
On,  Aella  on!    We  surely  gain  the  day 
When  thou  dost  lead  us  to  the  deadly  plain! 

Celmonde  tells  of  the  battle,  of  the  prowess  of  Aella 
and  the  triumphing  Saxon  arms,  and  in  his  story  is 
this  passage: 

Bright  sun  had  in  his  ruddy  robes  been  dight; 

From  the  red  East  he  flitted  with  his  train; 

The  hours  drew  aside  the  veil  of  night, 

Her  sable  tapestry  was  rent  in  twain. 

The  dancing  streaks  bedecked  the  heavens  wide  plain, 

And  on  the  dew  did  smile  with  shimmering  eye. 

Celmonde  is  something  like  Franz  Moor;  just  be- 
fore he  starts  on  his  despicable  errand  he  has  a 
soliloquy  that  reasons  of  good  and  evil  much  after 
the  manner  of  Schiller's  villain,  in  which  he  concludes 
that 

"  —  eternal  fame  —  it  is  but  air 
Bred  in  the  phantasy  and  only  living  there." 

And  again: 

Albeit  everything  in  life  conspire 
To  tell  me  of  the  fault  I  now  should  do, 
Yet  would  I  recklessly  assuage  my  fire, 
And  the  same  means,  as  I  shall  now,  pursue. 
The  qualities  I  from  my  parents  drew 
Were  blood  and  murder,  mastery  and  war; 
These  I  will  hold  to  now,  and  heed  no  moe 
A  wound  in  honor  than  a  body-scar. 


146  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

The  song  that  is  sung  before  Birtha  mourning  for 
the  absent  Aella,  though  no  doubt  suggested  by 
Ophelia's  song  in  Hamlet, 

His  beard  was  white  as  snow,  etc. 

has,  nevertheless,  lyrical  and  other  qualities  that 
transcend  in  interest  any  considerations  of  possible 
plagiarism.  Chatterton  had  the  soul  of  a  musician 
and  such  a  sense  of  sound  values  as  no  English  poet 
before  him  had  ever  displayed.  In  this  song,  for 
instance,  whoever  has  interest  in  the  development 
of  our  modern  system  of  poetry  may  note  the  appear- 
ance of  the  designed  use  of  the  rest  towards  a  certain 
musical  effect  as  in  Swinburne  and  others  in  these 
times.  The  tempo  here  is  intended  to  be  slow  and 
stately,  as  befits  the  mournful  theme,  and  it  is  se- 
cured by  the  one  means  of  the  interposed  rest  at  regu- 
lar intervals.  I  will  give  two  stanzas  and  then  show 
the  musical  theory  they  are  built  upon. 

O!  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie, 
O!  droppe  the  brynie  teare  wythe  mee, 
Daunce  ne  moe  atte  hallie  daie, 
Lycke  a  reynynge  ryver  bee; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

See!  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie; 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  loves  shroude; 


THE  RISING  FLAME  147 

Whyterre  yanne  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

This  has  the  following  musical  scheme: 

If  r 


3 

a 

f     f 

1 

f    r 

1 

f 

O  !      sing 

un    -  to 

my     re 

f 

r    1 

f 

r    1 

f 

r 

O!  drop 

the 

brin 

y 

tear 

•* 

r    1 

f 

r    1 

f 

r 

Dance 

no 

more 

on 

hoi 

1 

f     1 

P 

r    1 

f 

p 

•  f 

with  me, 

f  r 

i    -  day, 

f  r 

Like  a        run      -     ning      riv      -       er  be ; 


My     love  is       dead, 

•«    f     |  r     If 


gone  to      his  death    -    bed 

r    I    -    r    If    r 


All      un       -       der    the      will    -     low      tree. 


148  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

8>  r  tg  p  =1  f  h  r  If  f 

See  !      the   white        moon  shines        on     high, 

-1  r    Iff    If    r    If    r 

Whit     -     er          is  my      true  love's  shroud  ; 

-1  r    I  f    r    Iff    Iff 

Whit     -      er       than  the     morn      -     ing       sky; 


f 
\ 

Whit     -     er       than  the     even      -      ing     cloud. 

The  device  of  the  rest  at  the  beginning  of  the  line 
creates  the  impression  of  solemn  utterance  and  slow 
tempo,  and  materially  influences  the  total  effect. 
The  song  is  one  of  the  most  melancholy  in  the  lan- 
guage and  one  of  the  sweetest  of  sound.  To  manage 
the  music  of  words  to  a  melody  so  simple  and  still 
so  moving  is  the  gift  of  the  gods.  Few  of  our  race 
have  had  it. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  and  thorne, 
Drayne  mie  hartys  blodde  awaie; 
Lyfe  and  all  yttes  goode  I  scorne, 
Daunce  bie  nete,  or  feaste  by  daie. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  149 

Waterre  wytches,  crownede  wythe  reytes, 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathalle  tyde. 
I  die!     I  comme!     mie  true  love  waytes. 
Thos  the  damselle  spake  and  dyed. 

Some  other  instances  of  the  poet's  marvelous  skill 
may  be  given  from  this  poem: 

1  The  world  is  dark  with  night,  the  winds  are  still; 
Faintly  the  moon  her  pallid  light  makes  gleam; 
The  risen  sprites  the  silent  churchyard  fill, 
With  elfin  fairies  joining  in  the  dream; 
The  forest  shineth  with  the  silver  leme. 

I  have  a  mind  winged  with  the  lightning's  plume. 

1  This  darkness  doth  affray  my  woman's  breast; 

How  sable  is  the  spreading  sky  arrayed! 

Happy  the  cottager  who  lives  to  rest 

Nor  is  at  Night's  all-daunting  hue  dismayed. 

The  stars  do  scantily  the  sable  braid, 

Wide  are  the  silver  gleams  of  comfort  wove. 

Speak,  Celmonde,  doth  it  make  thee  not  afraid  ? 

The  mornynge  'gyns  alonge  the  easte  to  sheene; 
Darklinge  the  lyghte  doe  onne  the  waters  plaie; 
The  feynte  rodde  leme  slowe  creepeth  oere  the  greene, 
Toe  chase  the  merkyness  of  nyghte  awaie; 
Swifte  flie  the  howers  thatte  wylle  brynge  oute  the  daie; 
The  softe  dewe  falleth  onne  the  greeynge  grasse; 
The  shepster  mayden,  dyghtynge  her  arraie, 
Scante  sees  her  vysage  yn  the  wavie  glasse. 
1  Modernized. 


150  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Lest  so  fine  a  stanza  should  be  lost  for  a  few 
tricks  of  spelling  I  give  it  also  in  modern  dress : 

The  morn  begins  along  the  east  to  shine, 
Darkling  the  light  doth  on  the  waters  play, 
The  faint  red  gleam  slow  creepeth  o'er  the  green 
To  chase  the  murkiness  of  night  away; 
Swift  fly  the  hours  that  will  bring  out  the  day; 
The  soft  dew  falleth  on  the  growing  grass; 
The  shepherd-maiden,  dighting  her  array, 
Scarce  sees  her  image  in  the  wavy  glass. 

A  certain  power  of  condensed  and  pithy  expres- 
sion is  apparent  throughout  this  remarkable  play. 
The  characters  habitually  say  no  more  than  they 
ought  to  say  and  speak  pointedly.  The  temptation 
to  spin  out  the  last  scene  with  death-bed  speeches 
would  have  been  irresistible  except  to  an  artist. 
There  is  a  kind  of  eloquent  brevity  about  the  scene 
as  Chatterton  handles  it,  reminding  one  of  the  Greek 
tragedies.  Mr.  Swinburne  has  hardly  done  better 
in  such  a  notable  ending  as  that  of  "Rosamund." 
When  Birtha  appears  and  in  wonderfully  few  lines 
the  situation  is  made  clear,  this  ensues: 

Aella.    Oh!  I  die  contente.     (Dieth) 
Birtba.  Oh!  ys  mie  Aella  dedde  ? 

Oh!  I  wylle  make  hys  grave  mie  vyrgyn  spousal  bedde. 

(Birtha  feyncteth.) 

Dodsley  did  not  accept  "Aella,"  the  tragedy  re- 
posed in  the  possession  of  Catcott,  and  the  world 


THE  RISING  FLAME  151 

had  no  knowledge  of  it  until  after  the  great  strange 
mind  that  wrought  it  had  left  these  shifting  scenes. 
With  another  brief  correspondence  we  have  more 
to  do.  After  the  failure  with  Dodsley,  whatever 
might  have  been  the  cause  of  it,  Chatterton  was 
more  than  ever  determined  to  give  Rowley  to  the 
world,  and  thereupon  faced  a  problem  that  has 
puzzled  and  sometimes  overwhelmed  many  an  older 
writer.  He  must  find  a  medium;  and  for  a  boy 
fifteen  years  old,  apprentice  to  an  obscure  lawyer  in 
a  provincial  town,  the  task  was  of  the  hardest.  In 
the  Rowley  romance  the  priest-poet  and  hero  was 
befriended  and  helped  by  a  wealthy,  judicious  patron, 
the  friend  of  art  and  artists.  Nothing  could  be 
more  natural  than  for  the  reincarnated  Rowley  (if 
I  may  use  that  term)  to  seek  a  rich  man  of  taste, 
intelligence,  and  literary  discernment  that  might  be 
the  reincarnated  Canynge.  One  such  there  was  in 
England  by  chance  and  not  by  merit  raised  to  that 
eminence.  Horace  Walpole,  Earl  of  Orford,  among 
his  many  posings  found  time  to  pose  as  a  patron  of 
literature.  He  had  a  private  press  at  Strawberry 
Hill,  he  maintained  a  friendship  with  Gray  of  the 
Elegy  and  with  other  literary  men  of  the  day,  and 
as  a  dilettante  wrote  some  things  himself.  He  was 
rich,  eminent,  and  influential.  Moreover  there  was  a 
particular  reason  why  Chatterton  should  be  attracted 
to  him,  for  Walpole  had  not  long  before  fabricated 


152  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

his  Otranto  disguise  and  gone  forth  in  it  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  he  might  reasonably,  therefore,  be  thought  to 
have  a  sympathetic  feeling  for  the  like  masqueraders. 
Chatterton  determined  to  appeal  to  Horace  Walpole. 
The  strange  fact  about  the  correspondence  that 
followed  is  that  Barrett,  the  strait-laced  surgeon, 
seems  to  have  known  all  about  Chatterton's  share  in 
it  and  to  have,  in  a  measure  at  least,  directed  his 
young  friend's  course.  Certainly  the  surgeon  drafted 
some  of  the  letters  and  he  could  hardly  have  drafted 
them  without  knowing  the  whole  history  of  the 
affair.  Here,  as  before,  then,  we  come  upon  this 
silent,  stealthy  figure  as  the  cloaked  director  of  the 
visible  moves.  Perhaps  Barrett  was  the  real  knave 
of  the  piece;  perhaps  he  suggested  Walpole  and  knew 
all  along  the  character  of  the  pretended  manuscripts; 
who  shall  say?  Walpole's  "Anecdotes  of  Painting" 
was  then  a  highly  esteemed  fruitage  of  the  Straw- 
berry Hill  garden  and  offered  an  easy  avenue  of 
approach  to  that  home  of  the  muses.  Consequently 
Chatterton  addressed  him  thus: 

SIR,  —  Being  versed  a  little  in  antiquitys,  I  have  met  with 
several  curious  manuscripts,  among  which  the  following  may  be 
of  service  to  you,  in  any  future  edition  of  your  truly  entertaining 
"Anecdotes  of  Painting."  In  correcting  the  mistakes  (if  any)  in 
the  notes  you  will  greatly  oblige 

Your  most  humble  servant, 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 
BRISTOL,  March  25th,  Corn  Street. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  153 

The  manuscript  accompanying  purported  to  be 
a  transcription  of  one  entitled  "The  Ryse  of  Peync- 
teyne  yn  Englande,  wroten  by  T.  Rowleie,  1469,  for 
Mastre  Canynge."  The  notes  cunningly  intro- 
duced the  whole  Rowley  romance  and  contained  a 
bait  for  the  owner  of  the  Strawberry  Hill  press,  for 
they  said  that  whoever  might  publish  the  Rowley 
poems  would  lay  the  Englishman,  the  antiquary, 
and  the  poet  under  an  eternal  obligation. 

It  was  this  boy's  fate  all  his  life  to  deal  with  the 
fraudulent  or  the  foolish  or  with  those  that  were 
both.  If  Walpole  had  really  possessed  a  modicum 
of  the  literary  acumen  to  which  he  pretended,  or  if 
he  had  been  a  man  of  any  worth,  there  would  be  a 
different  story  to  tell  of  Thomas  Chatterton.  At  first 
the  author  of  Otranto  was  vastly  taken  with  the  dis- 
covery of  Rowley.  He  replied  to  Chatterton  in  an 
effusive  letter,  regarded  the  "Ryse  of  Peyncteyne" 
as  a  wonderful  addition  to  his  store  of  knowledge, 
and  intimated  a  willingness  to  print  the  Rowley 
poems. 

Thus  encouraged,  Chatterton  wrote  again,  reveal- 
ing his  situation  as  a  poor  boy,  the  son  of  a  widow, 
the  apprentice  of  an  attorney,  but  with  an  ambition 
for  a  literary  career.  All  that  he  said  we  shall  never 
know,  Walpole  having,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  de- 
stroyed a  part  of  his  letter,  but  it  is  certain  that  he 
spoke  quite  frankly  of  the  facts  in  his  case;  Walpole 


154  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

has  admitted  as  much.  He  enclosed  another  prose 
manuscript  and  a  specimen  of  Rowley's  poetry, 
being  the  Ode  to  War  already  quoted  from  "The 
Battle  of  Hastings."  Walpole  had  not  counted  on 
dealing  with  penniless  sons  of  obscure  widows;  the 
boy's  candor  utterly  changed  his  attitude.  He 
showed  the  manuscripts  to  Gray  of  the  Elegy  and  to 
Gray's  friend  Mason.  They  said  the  work  was  not 
of  the  fifteenth  century;  whereupon  Walpole  favored 
Chatterton  with  a  letter  of  cold  advice,  declining  to 
be  of  any  assistance  to  him  and  telling  him  with 
brutal  irony  to  labor  hard  at  being  a  scrivener  and 
when  he  had  amassed  a  fortune  at  that  trade  he 
might  turn  his  attention  to  literary  studies. 

But  he  kept  the  manuscripts,  that  is  the  strange 
thing;  he  kept  the  manuscripts.  What  for  only 
heaven  knows;  perhaps  to  copy  and  use  them,  a 
dastardly  act,  of  which,  by  his  own  confession,  he 
was  quite  capable.  Chatterton  wrote  thrice,  the 
last  two  letters  being  courteous  but  firm  demands,  for 
the  return  of  his  property.  Walpole  afterward  de- 
clared that  he  was  preparing  to  go  to  Paris  when 
these  epistles  arrived  and,  doubtless,  in  the  stress  and 
confusion  of  that  momentous  and  necessary  work, 
the  intrusive  protests  of  a  mere  apprentice  of  the 
lower  orders  were  overlooked.  The  last  of  the  let- 
ters was  dated  July  24,  and  in  Horace  Walpole's 
opinion  it  was  "singularly  impertinent,"  being  ad- 


THE  RISING  FLAME  155 

dressed   by  a  very   common  person  to  one  of  the 
nobility.     It  read: 

SIR,  —  I  cannot  reconcile  your  behaviour  to  me  with  the  notions 
I  once  entertained  of  you.  I  think  myself  injured,  Sir:  and  did 
not  you  know  of  my  circumstances  you  would  not  dare  to  treat 
me  thus.  I  have  sent  twice  for  a  copy  of  the  MS.  —  no  answer 
from  you.  An  explanation  or  excuse  for  your  silence  would  oblige, 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

Walpole  said  afterward  that  on  the  receipt  of 
this  revolutionary  and  insulting  communication  he 
took  his  pen  in  hand  and  began  a  letter  of  admoni- 
tion and  expostulation,  but  probably  concluding  that 
the  young  ruffian  was  beyond  hope  and  incorrigible, 
he  flung  the  letter  he  had  begun  into  the  fire,  and 
snapping  up  Chatterton's  manuscripts  and  letters 
he  returned  them  without  a  word.  In  later  years, 
when  he  came  to  deny  that  he  had  ever  received 
certain  of  these  letters,  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
have  them  was  of  use  to  him.  In  the  minds  of  some 
persons  it  helped  to  relieve  the  figure  he  cut,  which 
was  really  one  of  the  sorriest  in  literary  history.  The 
boy  was  perfectly  right  in  his  conclusion  that  if 
Walpole  had  not  known  of  the  condition  of  his 
correspondent  he  would  not  have  dared  to  use  him  so. 
Whatever  might  have  been  the  verdict  of  Gray  and 
Mason,  there  could  be  no  excuse  for  returning  the 
manuscripts  without  an  acknowledgment,  and  no 
possible  palliation  for  retaining  them  so  long.  Even 


156  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Coleridge  when  he  had  fallen  from  grace  and 
turned  reactionary  gagged  at  this.  But,  on  the 
whole,  the  earl  of  Orford  has  escaped  lightly;  on 
the  whole,  the  abundant  literature  of  denuncia- 
tion that  the  Chatterton  story  has  called  forth 
seems  to  have  been  unevenly  distributed,  and  one 
would  be  pleased  to  record  that  a  part  of  the  wrath 
that  fell  upon  the  memory  of  the  young  appren- 
tice had  been  reserved  for  the  knavish  nobleman. 

The  fall  of  his  hopes  went  nigh  for  the  moment  to 
crush  the  boy.  He  had  counted  so  much  upon  the 
modern  Canynge  as  his  friendly  helper  in  the  task 
he  had  set  for  himself  and  there  had  been  so  much 
reason  for  his  faith !  This  was  the  one  man  of  the 
age  that  held  such  a  position,  or  seemed  to  hold  it, 
as  the  builder  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  had  held;  the 
man  of  taste  and  wealth,  the  friend  of  poets,  the  man 
that  had  printed  at  his  own  expense  "The  Elegy  in 
a  Country  Churchyard,"  the  poem  that  Chatterton 
felt  Rowley  could  far  surpass.  And  this  man  would 
not  see,  this  man  thought  the  obvious  and  trite  reflec- 
tions of  Gray  were  better  than  the  divine  art  that  he 
could  show  him!  And  the  cold  insult  he  had  en- 
dured —  that  was  only  because  he  was  poor  and 
obscure,  that  was  a  gratuitous  reminder  that  he  was 
far  below  the  caste  to  which  the  noblemen  of  the 
realm  belonged,  that  he  was  only  a  boy  of  the  lower 
classes  and  must  take  what  treatment  his  betters 


THE  RISING  FLAME  157 

might  please  to  give  him,  that  he  must  not  dream  of 
addressing  them.  The  iron  entered  his  soul  as  he 
thought  of  it.  The  world  was  against  him,  the 
channels  to  recognition  and  expression  were  solely 
possessed  by  the  fortunate;  henceforth,  a  solitary 
and  friendless  waif,  he  was  flung  in  a  desperate 
struggle  against  those  invincible  barriers. 

The  villainy  you  teach  me  I  will  execute  and  it  shall  go  hard 
but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

He  had  been  flogged  for  reading  and  dreaming, 
flogged  for  writing  poetry,  upbraided  by  his  master 
for  wasting  his  time  in  study,  cajoled  and  mistreated 
by  the  scheming  Barrett  and  the  foolish  Catcott, 
neglected  by  every  one  that  should  have  taken  an 
intelligent  interest  in  him,  enslaved  to  a  drudging 
occupation,  grossly  and  wantonly  insulted  by  the 
man  that  was  supposed  to  be  the  criterion  of  the 
literary  taste  of  his  day,  reminded  that  he  was  not 
of  the  class  that  might  be  allowed  to  succeed,  thrust 
back  among  the  unthinking  hinds  to  whose  lowly 
ways  he  properly  belonged,  made  in  one  flash  to 
see  how  great  a  gulf  separated  him  from  the  elect, 
scorned  for  his  beautiful  work  that  his  age  would 
have  none  of,  defeated  on  every  hand.  And  still 
the  indomitable  spirit  burned  high  within  him,  still 
exalted  by  a  sense  of  his  calling,  the  insuperable 
knowledge  of  his  gift,  and  the  fervor  for  expression, 


158  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

he  toiled  on  alone.  But  from  this  time  he  had  less 
regard  than  ever  for  the  means  by  which  he  should 
wring  from  the  hard  world  the  recognition  that  merely 
because  he  was  young  and  poor  that  world  had 
denied  to  him. 

The  restless  spirit  of  this  strange  being  had,  mean- 
time, found  another  and  wholly  different  channel 
for  its  activities.  I  have  said  something  of  his 
intense  interest  in  the  political  affairs  of  his  day.  In 
these  all  the  part  of  his  nature  that  was  not  dreamer 
and  artist  was  now  deeply  engrossed.  The  time 
was  ripe  for  one  of  his  faith.  The  England  of  his 
day  was  passing  through  one  of  those  convulsive 
struggles  between  surviving  feudalism  and  young 
democracy  from  which  have  come,  by  slow  degrees, 
the  present  emancipated  race.  It  was,  in  fact,  one 
of  the  dying  tremors  of  absolutism,  though  nobody 
of  that  day  so  viewed  it.  For  a  few  years  the  foolish 
George  III  had  been  on  the  throne  doing  many  foolish 
things,  and  now  with  characteristic  folly  and  obstinacy 
he  was  standing  out  for  the  medieval  right  of  the 
monarch  to  choose  his  own  ministers,  no  matter  how 
distasteful  they  might  be  to  the  nation.  Past  this 
blockade,  in  a  way  not  without  precedent  in  human 
affairs,  progress  was  unwittingly  furthered  by  an 
obtuse  prejudice  as  much  as  by  the  agitation  carried 
on  by  the  popular  leaders.  The  minister  most  de- 
tested happened  to  be  a  Scot,  and  the  cardinal  prin- 


THE  RISING  FLAME  159 

ciples  of  the  Englishman  of  that  day  were  to  fear 
God  and  hate  the  Scotch.  We  should  be  profoundly 
thankful  that  the  Scotch  had  traits  offensive  to  the 
English  mind;  otherwise  England  might  to-day  have 
a  constitution  like  Germany's.  The  Scotchman  for 
whom  the  foolish  king  stood  fastwas  the  Earl  of  Bute, 
a  well-enough  meaning  man,  no  doubt,  but  deficient 
in  tact  and  unluckily  the  target  of  much  abuse  be- 
cause he  was  a  favorite  with  that  acrid  and  unpopu- 
lar person,  the  king's  mother.  Bute  was  prime 
minister,  a  great  many  things  went  awry,  as  things 
will  go,  more  or  less;  the  premier  was  accused,  on 
plausible  grounds,  of  incompetency,  and  a  hot  agita- 
tion began  to  induce  the  king  to  remove  him.  In- 
evitably the  discussion  verged  upon  other  delicate 
points  concerning  ruler  and  ruled,  the  spirit  of  revolt 
that  presently  flamed  out  in  the  American  and  French 
revolutions  was  tugging  at  the  minds  of  men,  and 
soon  there  arose  a  leader  capable  of  directing  the 
new  movement  and  making  himself  its  idol. 

This  was  the  misunderstood  John  Wilkes.  For 
almost  a  century  and  a  half  English  writers  have 
been  pleased  to  denounce  this  man  as  a  demagogue, 
but  in  the  clearer  perspective  of  time  and  the  better 
lights  we  have  on  such  things  we  need  not  be  too 
sure  of  his  demagogy.  With  all  its  faults,  many 
things  in  the  life  of  John  Wilkes  seem  eminently 
respectable.  He  cheerfully  endured  imprisonment 


160  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  risked  far  worse  for  the  sake  of  a  good  cause. 
Almost  everything  he  stood  for  has  had  the  infrangible 
endorsement  of  posterity  and  the  honor  of  a  place 
in  the  British  constitution.  No  one  can  now  doubt 
that  in  preventing  him  from  taking  his  seat  because 
he  had  criticized  the  king,  the  House  of  Commons 
was  absolutely  in  the  wrong,  absolutely  guilty  of  a 
tyrannical  and  reactionary  excess.  That  Wilkes  was 
bitterly  hated  by  the  court  party  and  that  the  court 
interest  then,  as  always,  had  the  loudest  voice  and 
wrote  (and  distorted)  the  most  history  need  not  con- 
cern us.  The  king  and  the  monarchial  interest 
generally  were  engaged  in  supporting  and  enforcing 
a  purely  feudal  institution.  They  were  bravely 
opposed  by  one  man.  He  may  not  have  been  very 
nice  about  some  things;  liberty  habitually  chooses  the 
uncouth  and  the  extravagant  to  wield  her  weapons; 
conventional  men  and  those  that  travel  on  the  main 
trodden  highways  of  propriety  seldom  feel  much  of 
her  fire.  Moreover,  in  all  history  invariably  the 
man  that  has  stood  for  the  common  people  has  been 
pictured  by  the  powers  of  reaction  as  a  depraved 
person;  he  must  be  depraved  or  he  would  not  oppose 
the  interests  of  those  divinely  appointed  to  be  fortu- 
nate and  to  possess  the  earth.  Whatever  defects  of 
character  John  Wilkes  may  have  had,  he  did  stand 
for  democracy,  he  did  battle  with  hand  and  brain 
and  voice  against  tyranny  and  the  backward  step, 


THE  RISING  FLAME  161 

he  did  effect  an  advance,  and  for  these  tremendous 
services  the  judicious  can  afford  to  overlook  the  worst 
that  has  been  charged  against  him. 

Into  the  fight  then  waging  for  democracy  this  boy 
threw  himself  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  soul.  It  was 
a  course  that  had  naturally  the  strongest  attractions 
for  him;  the  boy  that  gave  his  last  pennies  to  the 
poor  of  Bristol  could  not  feel  otherwise.  Besides, 
among  his  convictions  were  a  profound  contempt  for 
convention  and  a  prophetic  sense  of  the  future  of 
mankind.  The  great  poets  that  have  made  the  paths 
whereon  our  poetry  has  traveled  have  been  of  this 
stamp:  Marlowe,  Milton  the  Republican,  Shelley, 
Swinburne;  the  innovators  have  been  the  radicals, 
the  men  impatient  of  feudalism,  indignant  against 
the  trammels  of  caste  and  established  conditions, 
rebels  and  often  outcasts.  That  a  man  should  feel 
beauty  enough  to  be  a  great  poet  he  must  feel  deeply 
also  for  men.  Always  the  poets  have  been  mighty 
on  the  side  of  democracy  if  they  have  been  great 
enough  to  endure;  as  do  but  think  of  Dante,  Mas- 
singer,  Lessing,  even  Schiller,  and  above  all  the 
supreme  light  of  Victor  Hugo,  besides  the  great 
group  we  have  already  spoken  of.  Who  knows 
but  it  was  this  that  cost  Surrey  his  head  ?  And 
for  all  his  later  backsliding  Coleridge  was  of  the 
valiant  brood  so  long  as  opium  had  left  his  wits 
clear.  In  our  own  day  we  have  seen  poets  become 


162  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

socialists  like  Morris,  and  a  whole  brood  of  Amer- 
ican singers;  fervent  champions  of  the  broadest 
democracy  like  Whitman;  fiery  and  uncontrollable 
revolutionists  like  Swinburne;  friends  of  the 
oppressed  and  the  suffering  like  William  Watson. 
He  was  of  this  angelic  brotherhood,  he  too,  this  boy; 
he  was  for  democracy,  and  the  keen  sword  of  his 
satire  was  out  against  king,  prime-minister,  and  all 
surviving  oppression. 

We  accept  these  things  now  as  a  matter  of  course, 
but  consider  for  a  moment  the  strength  of  character 
and  the  sincerity  of  purpose  necessary  for  such  a 
choice  at  such  a  time.  For  the  champions  of  re- 
action were  pensions  and  preferments,  soft  places 
and  the  favor  of  the  court  and  of  the  powerful  in 
a  day  when  the  ablest  writer  could  hardly  expect 
without  aid  to  earn  a  bare  subsistence.  For  those 
that  wrote  on  the  patriotic  side  was  nothing  but 
starvation  pittances  and  the  danger  of  prosecution. 
To  an  ambitious  young  man  just  beginning  his  career 
as  a  writer,  one  service  offered  an  easy  ascent  to 
comfort  and  fame  and  the  other  held  forth  poverty 
and  obscurity.  That  Chatterton  never  hesitated  in 
the  face  of  such  temptations  is  a  fact  clearly  entitling 
him  to  our  utmost  respect;  although  here,  as  in  so 
many  other  instances,  the  recognition  due  him  has 
always  been  denied. 

There  was  ample  occasion  for  the  enlisting  of  any 


THE  RISING  FLAME  163 

democrat.  Wilkes,  a  member  of  Parliament,  had 
been  editor  of  a  weekly  newspaper  called  the  North 
Briton.  In  this  he  ventured  in  1763  to  print  some 
criticism  of  a  speech  of  the  king's.  He  was  arrested 
but  pleaded  his  Parliamentary  privileges,  and  after 
some  days  in  the  Tower  was  released.  He  there- 
upon reprinted  the  issue  of  the  North  Briton  that 
had  criticized  the  King,  and  the  House  of  Commons 
expelled  him  and  passed  a  special  act  to  provide  for 
his  prosecution.  Wilkes  was  then  on  the  Continent. 
He  was  prosecuted  for  his  attack  on  the  King,  and 
also  for  printing  the  "Essay  on  Woman,"1  found 
guilty,  and,  not  appearing  for  sentence,  was  out- 
lawed. He  returned  to  England,  stood  for  Middlesex, 
was  triumphantly  elected,  and  over  the  vital  issue  thus 
created  the  conservative,  land-owning,  king-worship- 
ing Commons  and  the  progressive  element  among 
the  people  were  locked  in  a  memorable  struggle  that 
lasted  for  years.  The  House  refused  to  admit  Wilkes 
and  declared  his  seat  vacant.  He  had  in  the  mean- 
time surrendered  himself  to  the  process  of  the  law, 
had  been  fined  £1000,  sentenced  to  twenty-two 
months  imprisonment,  and  shut  up  in  jail.  Middle- 
sex promptly  re-elected  him;  the  Commons  refused 
to  admit  him  and  again  declared  his  seat  vacant. 

JIt  has  often  been  represented  that  Wilkes  was  the  author  of  this  obscene 
poem.  The  real  author  was  Thomas  Potter,  son  of  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. But  thirteen  copies  of  it  were  printed  on  Wilkes 's  press,  and  this 
fact  was  seized  as  a  pretext  for  prosecuting  Wilkes. 


164  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

By  this  time  people  were  in  a  white  heat  elsewhere  as 
well  as  in  London.  Twice  again  Middlesex  elected 
the  man  of  its  choice;  twice  again  the  Commons 
rejected  him.  But  on  the  last  occasion  the  House 
went  farther  and  a  little  too  far.  Other  candidates 
had  been  put  up  against  Wilkes  and  one  of  these, 
though  receiving  a  mere  handful  of  votes,  was  de- 
clared elected.  Naturally  the  country  burst  into  furi- 
ous indignation  over  this  singularly  barefaced  outrage 
on  the  security  of  elections.  Wilkes  ending  soon  after- 
ward, that  is  to  say  in  April,  1770,  his  term  of  impris- 
onment, became  the  most  popular  man  in  England. 

It  is  necessary  to  understand  this  situation  to  see 
how  it  appealed  to  and  affected  Chatterton.  While 
the  warfare  was  at  its  hottest  he  was  pouring  out  a 
flood  of  metrical  satires  and  prose  articles,  assailing 
with  vindictive  bitterness  the  government,  the  Dowa- 
ger Princess  of  Wales  (the  king's  mother),  the  beef- 
witted  Duke  of  Grafton,  even,  so  far  as  the  prevail- 
ing conditions  allowed,  the  dull  king  himself.  For 
these  effusions  he  presently  found  a  ready  and  appre- 
ciative market  in  London,  and  in  a  short  time  he  was 
sending  them  regularly  to  the  Freeholders'  Magazine, 
a  periodical  in  Wilkes's  interest. 

They  were  worth  all  the  attention  they  received 
and  more,  for  in  that  storm  and  stress  of  politics 
appears  now  only  one  other  light  so  clear  as  this; 
only  one  other  among  all  the  champions  engaged  in 


THE  RISING  FLAME  165 

the  controversy  wrote  more  powerful  English,  and 
that  one  was  the  redoubtable  Junius  himself.  An 
extraordinary  power  over  bitter  and  sarcastic  utter- 
ance made  the  boy  a  formidable  warrior  in  these 
lists,  and  he  had  appeared  but  once  or  twice  in  the 
columns  of  the  Freeholders'  Magazine  before  the 
discerning  editor  was  looking  eagerly  for  the  com- 
munications of  "D.  B.  of  Bristol." 

Thus  this  boy,  fifteen,  sixteen  years  old,  became 
one  of  the  most  ardent,  zealous,  and  effective  advo- 
cates of  the  democratic  cause.  It  makes  us  smile 
now,  that  suggestion,  because  it  seems  so  extrava- 
gant, and  yet  the  fact  is  that  by  Wilkes  and  his  friends, 
such  as  Beckford,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  the  ser- 
vices of  their  Bristol  lieutenant  were  recognized  and 
prized  when  they  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  those  clean  shafts  that  went  so  far  and  shot  so 
true  were  hurled  by  a  slender  apprentice  in  the  office 
of  a  curmudgeon  Bristol  lawyer. 

He  carried  on  all  together,  Rowley  in  poetry  and 
prose,  Canynge,  Barrett,  two  Catcotts,  the  lawyer's 
office,  the  precedents,  the  parchments,  Wilkes,  the 
king,  Grafton,  and  the  rest,  and  almost  every  night 
between  eight  and  ten  (for  these  were  the  hours  of 
his  liberty)  he  was  at  his  mother's  house.  The  his- 
tory of  the  human  mind  reveals  no  other  instance  of 
an  industry  so  prodigious  and  varied.  Of  these 
poems  that  have  been  preserved  two  full  volumes 


1 66  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

are  made,  and  his  prose  writings  would  easily  fill  a 
still  larger  volume,  perhaps  two,  and  this  takes  no 
account  of  his  manuscripts  that  were  destroyed  at 
his  death  nor  of  the  bulk  of  them  that  has  otherwise 
perished.  And  all  these  works  written  in  the  space 
of  about  three  years !  The  thing  is  not  in  nature.  To 
produce  in  one  year  a  poem  so  perfect  as  "Aella," 
so  well  considered,  carefully  wrought,  and  ably  man- 
aged, would  be  an  achievement;  but  the  year  that 
saw  "Aella"  written  saw  the  making  of  many  other 
poems  in  the  pseudo-antique  dialect  and  in  modern 
form,  and  a  variety  of  able  prose  writings  as  well, 
and  still  his  labors  at  Lambert's  conscientiously 
performed,  his  nightly  visit  to  his  mother  and  sister, 
his  reading  and  studying,  his  unending  quest  for 
books  and  knowledge,  his  disputations  with  the 
Catcotts.  On  what  theory  of  cellular  activity  shall 
we  account  for  all  these  things  ? 

He  found  time  also  to  form  a  little  circle  of  friends 
or  acquaintances  that  had  or  were  made  to  have  an 
interest  in  literature,  probably  the  boy's  conception 
of  the  best  he  could  do  in  Bristol  to  imitate  the  wit- 
gatherings  at  the  Mermaid.  The  others  of  this  com- 
pany were,  like  Chatterton,  called  from  employments 
ordinarily  estranged  from  the  muses.  Thus  Thomas 
Gary,  one  of  the  most  promising  among  them,  was 
by  trade  a  maker  of  tobacco  pipes,  Henry  Kator  was 
a  confectioner's  apprentice,  Mathew  Mease  was  a 


THE  RISING  FLAME  167 

vintner,  and  so  on.  It  appears  that  under  Chatter- 
ton's  inspiration  all  of  these  became  interested  in 
experiments  in  verse  or  prose  and  all  must  have  been 
equally  inspired  by  the  hot  young  radical  to  follow 
with  attention  the  course  of  political  events  in  their 
country.  He  made  also  some  acquaintance  with 
the  two  leading  organists  of  Bristol,  one  Broderip 
and  one  Allen,  for  he  was  in  love  with  music  and 
transported  whenever  he  heard  it.  He  also  made  a 
practise  of  listening  to  various  noted  clergymen  of 
the  time  and  subsequently  of  satirizing  and  ridicul- 
ing their  sermons.  He  spared  not  even  the  august 
Dr.  Newton,  Bishop  of  Bristol,  to  whom  he  addressed 
a  letter,  still  extant  in  manuscript,  savagely  assailing 
the  prelate's  views  on  non-resistance,  the  supreme 
authority  of  the  sovereign  and  other  Tory  tenets.  A 
cordial  invitation  to  the  Bishop  to  excommunicate 
for  heresy  the  writer  of  the  letter  is  one  of  its  interest- 
ing features,  but  the  best  sentences  contain  the  boy's 
frank,  eloquent  defense  of  liberty.  Dr.  Newton 
had  called  John  Wilkes  "a  blasphemer"  for  criticiz- 
ing the  king's  ministers.  "Turn  over  your  own 
treatise  on  Revelation  candidly,"  says  Chatterton, 
"and  tell  me  who  is  the  most  atrocious  blasphemer, 
the  man  who  denies  the  justice  of  God  by  maintain- 
ing the  damnable  doctrine  of  predestination,  or  he 
that  justly  ridicules  the  blunders,  not  the  funda- 
mentals of  religion."  His  extreme  freedom  with  his 


168  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

pen  and  his  power  of  stinging  sarcasm  must  have 
come  home  to  some  of  his  victims.  One  night  when 
he  was  returning  from  his  mother's  house  a  man 
sprang  upon  him,  knocked  him  down  and  beat  him, 
cursing  him  and  telling  him  he  would  "spoil  his 
writing  arm."  No  other  explanation  appears  of  this 
incident,  which  is  the  only  case  in  which  Chatterton 
appeared  in  a  scene  of  violence  and  this  without  his 
will.  But  it  was  an  age  when  a  blow  or  a  duel  was 
taken  to  be  adequate  repartee.  The  Wilkes  party  had 
many  friends  in  Bristol  but  it  had  also  bitter  enemies. 
Probably  what  happened  was  that  Chatterton  had  in 
his  biting  fashion  lampooned  some  of  these  and  an  ag- 
grieved one  responded  after  the  manner  of  the  times. 
In  that  day  the  shade  of  Pope  still  ruled  the  realm 
of  poesy,  and  to  emulate  the  Dunciad  was  esteemed 
the  crown  of  the  poet's  earthly  glory.  When  one  suc- 
ceeded in  adding  to  the  dust  heap  of  oblivion  some- 
thing in  heroic  couplets  that  had  an  epigrammatic 
flavor  the  polite  world  cheered  joyously.  There  was 
no  more  poetry  in  the  mass  of  this  stuff  than  there 
is  perfume  in  paper  flowers,  but  from  Dryden  to 
Chatterton  you  will  search  mostly  in  vain  for  any- 
thing else.  It  is  not  the  least  of  the  marvels  of  Chat- 
terton's  story  that  in  a  time  when  the  complacent 
verdict  of  the  world  had  named  one  form  as  the 
supernal  essence  of  poetic  art  he  broke  so  far  away 
and  wrote  in  a  style  so  different.  But  that  was  in 


THE  RISING  FLAME  169 

the  Rowley  poems.  His  satires,  being  designed  for 
immediate  consumption  and  effect,  followed  more 
or  less  the  taste  of  his  times.  Churchill,  a  rather 
clever  rhymer  of  licentious  predilections,  was  es- 
teemed to  have  come  nearest  to  the  idol  of  the  age. 
Most  of  Chatterton's  satirical  verses  will  be  found  to 
discount  Churchill  in  wit  and  point  and  to  be  superior 
in  aim.  There  has  been  preserved,  unluckily,  and 
incorporated  with  his  poems,  a  mass  of  sketch-work 
with  which  from  time  to  time  he  employed  himself, 
as  an  artist  makes  idle  hour  studies,  perhaps  of  leaves. 
But  his  serious  efforts  in  political  satire  are  worth 
attention  as  specimens  of  that  not  very  valuable  art. 
One,  at  least,  has  a  touch  of  sarcasm  far  beyond 
the  average  of  such  compositions.  It  is  called 
"Resignation"  and  begins  with  a  mock  apostrophe 
to  that  virtue,  and  then  proceeds  to  advise  the  Duke 
of  Grafton,  prime  minister,  to  share  its  calm  delights 
and  gratify  the  country  by  resigning  his  office. 

Hail,  Resignation!  'tis  from  thee  we  trace 
The  various  villanies  of  power  and  place; 
When  rascals,  once  but  infamy  and  rags, 
Rich  with  a  nation's  ruin,  swell  their  bags, 
Purchase  a  title  and  a  royal  smile, 
And  pay  to  be  distinguishably  vile; 
When  big  with  self-importance  thus  they  shine, 
Contented  with  their  gleanings  they  resign! 
When  ministers,  unable  to  preside, 
The  tottering  vehicle  no  longer  guide, 


170  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

The  powerful  Thane  prepares  to  kick  his  Grace 

From  all  his  glorious  dignities  of  place; 

But  still  the  honour  of  the  action's  thine, 

And  Grafton's  tender  conscience  can  resign. 

Lament  not,  Grafton,  that  thy  hasty  fall 

Turns  out  a  public  happiness  to  all; 

Still  by  your  emptiness  of  look  appear 

The  ruins  of  a  man  who  used  to  steer; 

Still  wear  that  insignificance  of  face, 

Which  dignifies  you  more  than  power  or  place. 

There  are  about  eight  hundred  lines  of  this,  some 
of  them  of  no  moment;  but  the  savage  characteriza- 
tion of  Bute  still  possesses  interest  for  the  curious,  and 
here  and  there  are  passages  of  strong  poetic  merit. 
It  is  remarkable  and  clearly  shows  his  innate  con- 
victions that  Chatterton  was  one  of  the  earliest  and 
most  outspoken  friends  of  the  American  Colonies. 
At  the  outset  of  their  struggle,  before  the  Boston  tea- 
party,  before  the  patriots  had  thought  of  indepen- 
dence, the  cause  that  was  presently  to  grow  into 
revolution  had  stirred  a  profound  sympathy  in  this 
boy's  heart.  Twice  in  "  Resignation  "  he  recurs  to  it. 

Alas!  America,  thy  ruined  cause 
Displays  the  ministry's  contempt  of  laws. 
Unrepresented  thou  art  tax'd,  excised, 
By  creatures  much  too  vile  to  be  despised; 
The  outcasts  of  an  ousted  gang  are  sent 
To  bless  thy  commerce  with  misgovernment. 
Whilst  pity  rises  to  behold  thy  fate, 
We  see  thee  in  this  worst  of  troubles  great; 


THE  RISING  FLAME  I/I 

Whilst  anxious  for  thy  wavering  dubious  cause, 
We  give  thy  proper  spirit  due  applause. 

The  other  reference  is  near  the  close : 

New  to  oppression  and  the  servile  chain, 
Hark  how  the  wrong'd  Americans  complain. 
Whilst  unregarded  the  petitions  lie, 
And  Liberty  unnoticed  swells  her  cry. 

Some  of  these  productions,  like  "  Kew  Gardens,'* 
he  did  not  publish  at  once,  but  laid  by  for  a  future 
purpose  that  was  slowly  taking  shape  in  his  mind; 
some  he  gave  to  Catcott  and  some  were  obviously 
mere  practise  work,  partly  for  the  entertainment  of 
himself  and  the  friends  of  his  little  wit-circle  and 
partly  to  keep  his  hand  in  for  his  grand  design.  In 
some  of  his  verses  he  ranged  through  the  court  and 
camp  of  his  day,  letting  fly  at  every  head  in  sight, 
cabinet  ministers,  actors,  pseudo-scientists,  scurvy 
poets,  noblemen,  and  particularly  at  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson,  whose  violent  reactionary  principles  and 
natural  arrogance  of  temper  made  him  an  irresistible 
target  for  one  of  Chatterton's  republican  faith  and 
nimble  wit.  He  ridiculed  unsparingly  Johnson's 
unlucky  tragedy  of  "Irene,"  and  repeatedly  jabbed 
at  the  good  doctor's  critical  pretensions.  The  num- 
ber of  eminent  characters  of  his  day  that  are  brought 
into  these  verses  is  rather  astonishing  and  shows  how 
keenly  he  analyzed  men  and  motives  and  how 
habituated  he  was  to  a  close  observation.  His  mind 


1 72  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

seemed  to  leap  instantly  to  the  salient  characteristic 
of  every  man  in  the  public  eye,  or  to  the  weakest  point 
in  his  armor.  All  the  court  party  he  lashed,  but 
most  he  raged  against  Bute  and  Grafton.  It  was  a 
time  of  much  license  in  abusive  speech  —  so  long  as 
one  did  not  abuse  the  sacred  majesty  of  the  pin-head 
king  —  but  the  literature  of  the  day  reveals  nothing 
more  vitriolic  than  Chatterton's  assaults  upon  these 
men.  When  he  had  made  a  dozen  lines  sufficiently 
contemptuous  of  the  feudal  champions  he  embalmed 
the  matter  in  some  poem  and  kept  it  by  him  ready  to 
be  lifted  into  action  whenever  occasion  might  demand. 
Thus  many  passages  in  "The  Exhibition,"  an  unpub- 
lished poem  in  the  Bristol  Museum,  were  transplanted 
to  "  Kew  Gardens,"  and  many  others  from  "  Kew 
Gardens"  were  reproduced  in  still  another  satire. 

He  was  busy  also  with  many  poems  in  the  modern 
manner  other  than  satires.  For  some  reason  never 
explained  his  mind  turned  often  toward  Africa,  and 
he  composed,  at  different  times,  a  series  of  African 
eclogues  or  semi-narratives  in  rhymed  couplets, 
"Narva  and  Mored,"  "Heccar  and  Gaira,"  and 
"The  Death  of  Nicou."  He  wrote  on  a  greatvariety 
of  subjects  and  in  a  great  variety  of  meters.  "The 
Copernican  System"  (he  was  then  studying  astron- 
omy), "February,  an  Elegy,"  and  the  many  songs, 
addresses,  and  elegiac  verses  indicate  something  of 
the  vast  range  of  his  powers.  I  give  a  specimen  of 
these  songs  —  "The  Invitation": 


THE  RISING  FLAME  173 

Away  to  the  woodlands,  away! 
The  shepherds  are  forming  a  ring, 
To  dance  to  the  honour  of  May, 
And  welcome  the  pleasures  of  Spring. 
The  shepherdess  labours  a  grace, 
And  shines  in  her  Sunday's  array, 
And  bears  in  the  bloom  of  her  face 
The  charms  and  the  beauties  of  May. 

Away  to  the  woodlands,  away! 

The  shepherds  are  forming  a  ring, 

To  dance  to  the  honour  of  May, 

And  welcome  the  pleasures  of  Spring. 

Away  to  the  woodlands,  away! 

And  join  with  the  amorous  train: 

'Tis  treason  to  labour  to-day, 

Now  Bacchus  and  Cupid  must  reign. 

With  garlands  of  primroses  made, 

And  crown'd  with  the  sweet  blooming  spray, 

Through  woodland,  and  meadow,  and  shade, 

We'll  dance  to  the  honour  of  May. 

Away  to  the  woodlands,  away! 

And  join  with  the  amorous  train: 

'Tis  treason  to  labour  to-day, 

Now  Bacchus  and  Cupid  must  reign. 

He  had  a  neat  hand  at  the  kind  of  love  verses  that 
were  then  esteemed  the  very  flower  of  elegant  wit, 
and  produced  a  deal  of  them,  counting  those  he  made 
for  his  friend  Baker  to  send  to  the  beauteous  Miss 
Hoyland  and  all  he  made  on  his  own  account  to 
"Miss  Burt,  of  Bristol,"  "Miss  Clarke,"  "Miss  C— " 


174  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  so  on.  He  could  write  these  things  with  a  free 
soul,  for  it  appears  that  while  he  liked  the  society  of 
intelligent  women  and  admired  the  sex  he  never  was 
genuinely  in  love  in  his  life,  perhaps  from  lack  of 
time.  He  also  dealt  in  clever  little  pastorals  and 
idyls  after  the  manner  of  an  age  much  given  to  metri- 
cal fripperies  of  this  sort,  but  the  odd  fact  is  that  in 
almost  everything  he  wrote  from  grave  to  gay  is  a 
finished  and  masterly  workmanship,  and  very  often 
are  lines  that  glow  with  the  immortal  fire  in  spite  of 
their  tawdry  surroundings.  The  acknowledged  poems 
being  mostly  mere  momentary  effusions,  or  else 
pot-boilers  and  hence  of  necessity  in  the  debased 
style  then  current,  are  greatly  inferior  to  the  Rowley 
poems  in  which  his  genius  had  full  wing-room 
to  soar,  and  his  infallible  perceptions  about  art  led 
him  untrammeled  beyond  the  comprehension  of 
those  dull  times;  but  even  the  acknowledged  poems 
have  a  certain  merit.  For  instance,  the  elegies  on  the 
death  of  his  old  friend  the  usher  Phillips  have  genu- 
ine feeling;  the  humorous  verses  have  a  clever 
diabolical  wit,  and  occasional  passages  in  the  satires 
show  a  poetic  substance  entirely  above  and  away 
from  the  subject.  As  take  in  the  unpublished  poem, 
"The  Exhibition,"  the  two  lines  (quoted  by  Dr. 
Gregory), referring  to  a  celebrated  organist  of  Bristol: 

"He  keeps  the  passions  with  the  sound  in  play 
And  the  soul  trembles  with  the  trembling  key." 


THE  RISING  FLAME  175 

And  the  like  flashes  of  beauty  show  here  and  there  in 
other  poems  that  are  in  themselves  of  little  worth. 
Finally  it  may  be  noted  that  while  he  studied  no 
Latin  at  Colston's  and  knew  of  it  only  what  he  had 
been  able  to  gather  by  his  unaided  efforts,  he  essayed, 
with  the  help  of  a  literal  version,  to  make  metrical 
translations  of  two  of  Horace's  Odes,  and  did  them 
not  badly.  A  series  of  prose  romances  purporting 
to  be  taken  from  ancient  Saxon  or  ancient  British 
sources  is  added  to  but  does  not  complete  the  list 
of  his  performances. 

Always  amid  these  pursuits  his  cherished  plan  was 
maturing  and  he  saw  now  that  the  time  was  at  hand 
to  put  it  into  operation.  The  lawyer's  office  had 
become  to  his  spirit  an  inexpressible  burden.  Lam- 
bert was  a  Gradgrind  of  a  kind  certain  to  produce 
revolt  in  any  lad  both  sensitive  and  proud.  As  I  have 
said,  Chatterton  made  it  a  practise  to  visit  his  mother 
and  sister  almost  every  night.  Lambert's  office 
closed  at  eight  o'clock.  He  was  obliged  to  be  in 
his  employer's  house  by  ten,  so  he  had  two  hours  for 
his  visit.  He  was  so  fond  of  the  little  family  that  he 
would  sometimes  linger  a  moment  beyond  the  time, 
or  perhaps  his  mother  would  detain  him,  and  then 
he  would  arise  in  haste,  saying  that  he  must  go  to 
get  the  scolding  that  he  knew  was  in  store  for  him. 
This  Lambert  was,  in  truth,  a  brutal  person.  He  had 
little  business,  so  Chatterton  had  in  the  office  much 


176  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

time  that  was  necessarily  unoccupied  in  service;  but 
Lambert  violently  objected  to  any  use  the  boy  made 
of  this  time.  First  he  forbade  his  apprentice  to 
write  on  the  office  stationery.  As  Chatterton  received 
no  wages  this  was  near  to  be  an  embargo  on  his 
singing  until  Mrs.  Edkins  came  to  his  relief  and  gave 
him  a  little  money.  Instead  of  appeasing  Lambert 
this  seemed  to  anger  him  the  more. 

"How  did  you  get  that  paper?"  he  thundered 
when  he  discovered  Chatterton  to  be  writing. 

"Very  honestly,"  said  Chatterton  proudly. 

Lambert  snatched  it  from  his  hand,  tore  it  to 
bits  and  flung  it  into  his  face.  Subsequently  the 
lawyer  discovered  in  a  desk  both  Chatterton's  store 
of  white  paper  and  many  of  his  completed  manu- 
scripts. These  he  ruthlessly  destroyed.  Chatterton 
complained  to  Mrs.  Edkins  that  in  this  way  some  of 
his  poems  had  been  hopelessly  lost.  The  letters  to 
his  friends  that  Lambert  had  torn  up  he  could  easily 
rewrite,  he  said,  but  the  poems  were  gone  forever. 

Yet  the  boy  was  a  faithful  servant  to  the  tyrant. 
There  are  still  in  existence  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
four  closely  written  foolscap  pages  of  law  precedents 
neatly  copied  in  Chatterton's  careful  hand  to  attest 
his  industry.  He  was  punctual  and  obedient,  and 
although  Lambert  feared  and  disliked  him  in  about 
equal  degrees,  he  could  find  no  other  fault  with  him 
than  that  "there  was  no  way  to  keep  boys  from 


THE  RISING   FLAME  177 

idling,"  —  idling  in  the  Lambert  vocabulary  mean- 
ing to  write  poetry  or  to  study  when  there  was  no 
office  work  to  be  done.  Lambert  used  to  send  the 
footman  to  spy  on  the  apprentice,  being  under  some 
suspicion  that  Chatterton  might  leave  the  office 
when  there  was  nothing  to  do,  but  the  footman 
always  found  him  at  his  post. 

Sometimes  at  home  Chatterton  told  Mrs.  Edkins 
that  Lambert's  tyranny  and  meanness  were  unbear- 
able, and  he  threatened  to  run  away.  In  1770  that 
would  have  meant  the  bridewell,  for  so  the  law  dealt 
with  fugitive  apprentices.  Mrs.  Edkins  remon- 
strated with  him,  and  asked  why  he  should  do  a  thing 
so  wrong  and  so  certain  to  cause  trouble  for  him.  To 
go  to  London,  the  boy  said,  to  get  money  to  help 
his  mother  and  sister. 

He  seemed  to  Mrs.  Edkins,  who  was  his  god- 
mother, to  be  never  in  spirits  but  always  with  a 
grave,  serious,  studying  face,  full  of  thought  and  con- 
cern. Sometimes  at  Lambert's  he  would  not  say  a 
word,  unless  he  were  spoken  to,  for  two  days  together, 
and  then  with  his  face  cleared  up  he  would  take 
aside  one  of  his  young  friends  and  read  or  repeat  one 
of  the  Rowley  poems  upon  which  he  had  been 
engrossed.  In  other  words,  when  he  seemed  to  be 
morose  he  was  merely  intent  upon  a  work  in  hand. 
As  a  specimen  of  the  treatment  he  has  had  I  may 
mention  that  it  is  customary  to  cite  the  fact  of  his 


178  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

periodical  and  pensive  silences  but  never  to  refer  to 
the  cause.  Apparently,  it  is  thought  that  while  he 
was  meditating  his  artistry  he  should  have  been  skip- 
ping the  rope  or  making  merry  with  his  comrades. 

It  was  impossible  that  such  a  connection  as  that 
between  the  small-souled  lawyer  and  the  aspiring 
poet  should  endure,  forits  path  led  straight  to  trouble. 
Moreover,  there  came  now  voices  that  the  boy  heard, 
and  they  summoned  him  to  London  and  another 
career.  The  editors  of  the  Middlesex  Journal 
and  of  the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  had  praised 
his  writings  and  hinted  that  if  he  cared  to  come  to 
London  he  might  do  well,  and  at  that  dulcet  sound 
he  strained  hard  against  the  chains  that  bound  him 
to  Bristol.  To  be  perched  upon  a  stool  in  a  dingy 
office  copying  dull  precedents,  practising  by  stealth 
and  at  odd  moments  the  art  that  was  the  breath  of 
his  life,  was  a  barren  existence  to  one  that  was  both 
a  dreamer  of  dreams  and  fired  with  a  mounting 
ambition.  But  he  was  bound  by  his  articles,  he  was 
an  apprenticed  slave;  unless  the  crusty  attorney 
could  be  induced  to  cancel  his  indenture  he  had  no 
hope  of  freedom. 

In  these  straits  he  matured  an  ingenious  but  wicked 
device,  and  yet  one  quite  naturally  suggested  by  his 
musings  and  his  habitual  melancholy.  No  doubt 
Chatterton,  like  Shelley,  to  whom  he  was  strangely 
akin,  had  considered  suicide  until  he  reached  the 


THE  RISING  FLAME  179 

conclusion  that  in  certain  conditions  to  end  one's 
life  is  not  only  innocent  but  laudable.  That  scene 
in  Trelawney's  "Records,"  where  Shelley  proposes 
to  leap  from  an  open  boat  and  "solve  the  great 
mystery,"  had  an  odd  parallel  when  Chatterton  one 
evening  after  discoursing  of  suicide  to  some  friends 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  pointing  it  to  his 
forehead  exclaimed,  "Ah,  if  one  had  but  the  courage 
to  pull  the  trigger!"  Now  a  misadventure  with  a 
letter  of  his  gave  a  clue  to  the  way  from  his  prison. 
A  friend  of  his  in  Bristol  was  one  Michael  Clayfield, 
a  well-to-do  distiller  and  the  owner  of  many  books, 
among  which  Chatterton  had  browsed  delightedly. 
He  wrote  occasionally  to  Clayfield  and  dedicated 
poems  to  him,  and  one  of  the  letters,  in  which  he 
advocated  suicide  and  suggested  his  intention  to  take 
his  own  life,  he  accidentally  left  upon  his  desk.  Lam- 
bert, who  seems  to  have  been,  in  a  characteristic 
way,  prying  about  to  see  how  his  apprentice  spent 
his  time,  came  upon  and  read  this  document.  He 
sent  it  to  Barrett,  who  says  he  lectured  Chatterton 
on  the  horrid  sin  of  self-destruction  until  the  boy 
wept,  a  triumph  of  eloquence  of  which  the  sur- 
geon's contemporaries  would  hardly  have  believed 
him  capable.  But  at  least  here  was  the  way  open 
and  the  slave  of  precedents  lost  no  time  in  prepar- 
ing another  and  similar  document  that  should  be 
more  useful  to  his  purposes. 


l8o  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

On  April  15,  1770,  Chatterton  being  then  seventeen 
years  and  five  months  old,  the  spying  Lambert 
found  on  his  apprentice's  desk  a  paper  bearing  the 
startling  title,  "The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 
Thomas  Chatterton,"  and  reading  on  discovered  it  to 
be  an  intending  suicide's  farewell  to  the  world.  "All 
this  wrote  between  1 1  and  2  o'clock  Saturday,  in  the 
utmost  distress  of  mind,  April  14,  1770,"  it  began, 
and  continued  with  a  metrical  address  to  his  friends 
and  other  matter,  running  into  this  explicit  statement: 

"Item.  If,  after  my  death,  which  will  happen 
to-morrow  night  before  eight  o'clock,  being  the  Feast 
of  the  Resurrection,  the  coroner  and  jury  bring  it  in 
lunacy,  I  will  and  direct  that  Paul  Farr,  Esq.,  and 
Mr.  John  Flower,  at  their  joint  expense,  cause  my 
body  to  be  interred  in  the  tomb  of  my  fathers,  and 
raise  the  monument  over  my  body  to  the  height  of 
four  feet  five  inches,  placing  the  present  flat  stone 
on  the  top,  and  adding  six  tablets."  Inscriptions 
for  these  tablets  followed;  five  were  heraldic  and 
satirical  and  only  one  has  any  present  appeal  to  the 
minds  of  men : 

"TO   THE   MEMORY   OF 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Reader,  judge   not.     If  thou   art   a   Christian,   believe 

that  he  shall  be  judged  by  a  supreme  power:  to  that 

power  alone  he  is  now  answerable." 


THE  RISING  FLAME  181 

The  lawyer  was,  after  his  nature,  properly  shocked 
by  his  discovery,  but  there  was  in  fact  nothing  to 
alarm  the  judicious.  A  more  discerning  mind  would 
have  been  on  the  whole  rather  moved  to  interest  and 
mild  amusement,  for  many  passages  showed  that 
the  apprentice  had  no  possible  design  upon  his  life. 

"Item.  I  give  all  my  vigor  and  fire  of  youth  to 
Mr.  George  Catcott,  being  sensible  he  is  most  in 
want  of  it. 

"Item.  From  the  same  charitable  motive,  I  give 
and  bequeath  unto  the  Rev.  Mr.  Camplin,  sen., 
all  my  humility.  To  Mr.  Burgum  all  my  prosody 
and  grammar,  likewise  one  moiety  of  my  modesty, 
the  other  moiety  to  any  young  lady  who  can  prove, 
without  blushing,  that  she  wants  that  valuable  com- 
modity. ...  I  leave  also  my  religion  to  Dr.  Cutts 
Barton,  Dean  of  Bristol,  hereby  empowering  the 
sub-sacrist  to  strike  him  on  the  head  when  he  goes 
to  sleep  in  church.  .  .  . 

"Item.  I  leave  all  my  debts,  the  whole  not  five 
pounds,  to  the  payment  of  the  charitable  and  gen- 
erous Chamber  of  Bristol,  on  penalty,  if  refused,  to 
hinder  every  member  from  a  good  dinner  by  appear- 
ing in  the  form  of  a  bailiff." 

And  so  on.  Certainly  a  man  does  not  write  like 
this  on  the  eve  of  destroying  himself.  But  Lambert 
had  long  been  in  awe  of  his  strange  young  appren- 
tice; his  mother,  who  managed  his  household,  was 


1 82  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

thoroughly  convinced  her  lodger  was  crazy,  and  a 
kind  of  panic  terror  fell  upon  them  lest  Chatterton 
should  kill  himself  before  he  could  be  gotten  off 
the  premises.  They  must  have  passed  a  sleepless 
Sunday  night,  housed  with  a  dangerous  lunatic  that 
had  openly  proclaimed  his  purpose  to  lay  violent 
hands  upon  himself.  On  Monday  morning,  April  16, 
the  indentures  were  hastily  canceled  and  without 
more  ado  Chatterton  found  himself  released  from 
the  hateful  servitude  to  precedents  and  free  to  tread 
the  path  where  the  lights  shone  arid  the  voices  called. 
He  set  straightway  about  it,  having  long  turned 
over  in  his  mind  all  these  contingencies  and  how  he 
should  act  therein.  One  week  he  took  to  prepare  for 
his  setting  forth  and  to  say  farewells.  His  Bristol 
friends  made  up  a  little  purse  for  his  expenses  —  a 
few  pounds  all  told.  Clayfield  contributed  gladly, 
no  doubt;  the  Catcotts  gave  something,  Gary  added 
a  little,  and  it  has  even  been  supposed  that  on  this 
occasion  an  unwonted  fire  thawed  the  chill  breast  of 
Barrett;  a  kindly  but  probably  a  strained  imagin- 
ing. He  went  about  his  farewells  with  the  utmost 
cheerfulness.  To  his  mother  and  sister  he  was  all 
tender  consolation.  One  of  his  characteristic  perform- 
ances was  to  gather  a  group  of  children  on  the  steps 
of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  and  bringing  up  gingerbread 
from  a  shop  across  the  street  and  near  his  mother's 
house,  give  them  a  farewell  banquet  on  this  national 


THE  RISING  FLAME  183 

dainty.  Other  youths  or  even  men  in  like  fashion 
approaching  from  the  country  that  fierce  struggle  in 
the  great  city  have  had  sinking  of  heart  and  been 
shaken  of  vague  alarms.  From  the  beginning  this 
boy  had  looked  with  entire  self-possession  upon  the 
seething  combat  and  the  part  he  should  play  in  it. 
Seventeen  years  old,  and  equipped  with  nothing  but 
his  two  hands  and  what  scanty  education  he  had 
picked  from  the  stony  field  of  a  commercial  school, 
he  marched  without  a  tremor.  London  had  no 
terrors  for  him,  of  no  man  alive  was  he  afraid.  A 
brave,  cool  spirit,  full  of  the  courage  that  comes  of 
weighing  causes  and  reasoning  of  foundation  matters, 
he  looked  with  unconcern  upon  the  desperate  chances 
of  that  venture.  He  knew  the  world,  he  knew  men, 
he  knew  that  his  own  address  never  failed  to  win  him 
respect  and  attention,  and  he  was  not  deceived  about 
the  divine  fire  that  he  bore.  He  knew  he  bore  it,  he 
knew  that  of  all  the  men  of  his  generation  he  had  been 
singled  out  to  be  the  message  bringer. 

His  farewells  were  made,  his  clothing  was  prepared 
for  him  by  his  mother  and  sister,  and  a  week  after 
Lambert  had  dismissed  him,  that  is  to  say,  on  Mon- 
day, April  23,  1770,  he  sat  on  the  coach  bound  for 
London  and  bowling  down  the  curving  road  to  Bath. 
He  was  not  plunging  quite  unfriended  into  the  great 
city.  A  relative  of  his,  a  kind  of  cousin,  one  Mrs. 
Ballance,  lodged  in  the  house  of  a  friendly  plasterer 


184  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

in  Shoreditch  and  thither  he  was  bound.  It  rained 
that  day  and  he  sat  inside  most  of  the  way,  and  that 
night  snow  fell  heavily  and  on  Maryborough  Downs 
the  snow  was  near  a  foot  deep.  His  facility  in 
making  acquaintances  and  winning  friendships  had 
exercise  in  the  coach.  His  fellow-traveler  beside 
him  was  a  Quaker,  a  journeyman  wood-carver,  who, 
before  Bath  was  reached,  became  so  much  interested 
in  the  youth  that  he  would  fain  have  gone  to  London 
to  be  in  his  company,  only  he  had  not  his  tools. 
The  next  day  was  clear  and  cold  and  he  sat  beside 
the  driver,  and  that  seasoned  observer  of  the  world 
and  mankind  was  won  with  the  rest,  telling  the  boy 
he  sat  bolder  and  tighter  than  any  other  person  that 
had  ridden  with  him.  But  so  it  was  always:  few 
could  look  upon  that  face  without  being  strangely 
moved  by  it,  either  to  obvious  admiration  and  liking, 
as  was  the  honest  "Gee-ho"  of  the  stage-coach,  or  to 
a  vague  unrest  and  concern,  as  was  the  curmudgeon 
lawyer. 

He  reached  London  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon of  April  25,  the  journey  of  one  hundred  and 
eighteen  miles  then  occupying  the  better  part  of  two 
days.  At  Shoreditch  he  found  his  cousin  and  got 
lodgings  with  the  honest  plasterer,  being  in  fact, 
bedmate  of  the  plasterer's  nephew.  His  two  prime 
traits,  tireless  energy  and  his  tender  home  feeling,  were 
instantly  displayed.  Within  twenty-four  hours  of  his 


THE  RISING  FLAME  185 

arrival  he  had  seen  four  of  the  men  from  whom  he 
expected  to  win  fame  and  fortune,  had  settled  his 
plans  for  work,  and  had  written  to  his  mother  a  letter 
full  of  cheer.  The  four  men  -he  had  seen  were 
Edmunds,  editor  of  the  Middlesex  Journal,  in  Shoe 
Lane,  Holborn;  Hamilton  of  the  Town  and  Country 
Magazine  at  St.  John's  Gate,  Clerkenwell;  Fell 
of  the  Freeholders'  Magazine,  in  Paternoster  Row; 
and  James  Dodsley,  the  book-seller  of  Pall  Mall  and 
the  recipient  of  his  letters  about  "Aella."  To  all 
except  Dodsley  he  was  very  well  known  by  name. 
Fell  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Wilkes  party; 
Edmunds  was  of  the  same  faith;  to  both  their  peri- 
odicals Chatterton  had  contributed  often.  The 
Town  and  Country  Magazine  had  printed  many 
of  his  miscellanies.  The  astonishment  that  fell  upon 
these  men  when  they  found  that  the  writer  of  those 
rattling  letters  on  politics,  of  those  vigorous  metrical 
satires,  was  a  slip  of  a  boy  with  a  grave  calm  face  and 
preternaturally  bright  eyes  must  have  exceeded  any- 
thing in  their  experience.  The  same  impression  that 
he  had  made  elsewhere  attended  him  here.  There 
was  that  in  his  dignified  bearing,  his  manifest  intel- 
ligence and  his  manner,  at  once  frank  and  engag- 
ing, that  instantly  forestalled  any  thought  of  treating 
him  as  a  boy.  The  graybeards  made  way  for  him; 
boy  and  all  he  had  his  place  at  the  front  of  the 
fight. 


1 86  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

"Great  encouragement  from  them;  all  approved 
of  my  design,"  he  wrote  his  mother  when  he  returned 
to  Shoreditch  that  day.  His  design  was  to  establish 
himself  as  a  writer,  and  indeed  it  looked  probable 
enough.  No  other  mind  in  England,  save  only  the 
mysterious  Junius,  possessed  such  a  compelling 
power  upon  words.  The  time,  too,  was  urgent, 
being  electric  with  the  premonitions  of  the  vivifying 
storms  of  the  French  revolution.  Periodical  litera- 
ture was  in  its  beginning,  active  inquiry  was  on  foot 
about  divine  right  and  government,  and  above  all  the 
forces  were  arrayed  in  London  for  the  great  struggle 
between  people  and  throne  over  Wilkes  and  Beckford. 

Beckford  was  lord  mayor.  He  was  of  acute  mind 
and  a  ready  courage,  many  sterling  qualities  of 
leadership,  a  sincere  love  of  democracy,  and  he  was 
re-info  reed  by  the  knowledge  of  a  great  popular 
majority  behind  him.  Six  days  before  Chatterton 
reached  London  Wilkes  had  ended  his  twenty-two 
months'  imprisonment  for  speaking  disrespectfully  of 
the  king,  and  London  was  still  ringing  with  the  en- 
thusiastic celebration  of  his  release.  Beckford  was 
of  Wilkes's  turn  of  mind.  The  right  of  electors  to 
choose  whom  they  would  without  interference  from 
the  crown  was  the  vital  issue  in  the  case  of  Wilkes, 
and  under  the  leadership  of  Beckford  the  corpora- 
tion of  London  presented  to  the  king  a  petition  that 
the  sanctity  of  elections  be  maintained.  It  was  a 


THE  RISING  FLAME  187 

movement  purely  on  Wilkes's  behalf  and  therefore 
ruffled  the  king's  temper.  He  did  not  like  it  because 
he  detested  Wilkes  and  all  that  Wilkes  stood  for, 
and  he  had  no  more  wit  than  to  reply  to  it  in  a  spirit 
of  quarrel.  It  gave  him  great  concern,  said  this  dull 
monarch,  to  find  that  any  of  his  subjects  "should 
have  been  so  far  misled  as  to  offer  me  an  address 
and  remonstrance,  the  contents  of  which  I  cannot 
but  consider  as  disrespectful  to  me,  injurious  to  my 
parliament,  and  irreconcilable  to  the  principles  of 
the  constitution."  This  was  bad  enough,  but  what 
inflamed  the  populace  to  a  perilous  wrath  was  that 
when  the  king  had  read  to  Beckford's  deputation  this 
unmannerly  speech  he  made  an  open  jest  of  the  affair 
to  the  leaders  of  the  court  party  that  were  with  him. 
To  be  jested  about  is  usually  the  intolerable  burden 
to  men  that  have  a  serious  cause,  and  for  the  cause 
that  Beckford  represented  thrones  have  been  shaken 
down  and  kings'  heads  have  rolled  in  the  sawdust. 
London  was  in  no  mood  for  laughter;  it  immediately 
made  Wilkes  an  alderman  to  spite  the  court  party 
and  settled  into  a  dogged  contest  to  secure  the  debated 
seat  in  Parliament. 

Wilkes  and  Beckford  meantime  planned  another 
deputation  to  the  king,  and  on  May  23  an  audience 
was  granted.  Beckford,  of  course,  headed  the  party 
and  read  the  petition,  which  was  a  spirited  remon- 
strance against  the  king's  churlish  response  to  the 


1 88  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

former  address.  That  is,  it  was  held  in  that  day 
to  be  extremely  spirited  and  dangerously  bold.  A 
later  generation  would  have  choked  at  the  expressions 
of  humility  wherewith  it  was  plentifully  larded.  But 
it  remonstrated,  that  was  the  main  thing,  and  it  hit 
hard  the  foolish  king,  for  as  soon  as  it  concluded 
George  III  pulled  out  his  reply,  which  was  even 
more  exasperating  and  ill-conceived  than  his  previous 
effort  had  been.  But  Beckford  was  ready,  having 
probably  understood  clearly  from  the  beginning 
what  would  be  the  outcome  of  the  visit.  Before 
the  monarch  could  move  away  the  mayor  had  burst 
into  a  brief  but  pointed  extemporaneous  harangue  in 
which,  with  every  expression  of  loyal  devotion  to  the 
king  and  the  government,  he  contrived  to  rap  George 
over  the  knuckles  for  his  attitude  towards  the  people. 
Whoever  had  dared,  said  Beckford,  to  alienate  the 
king's  affections  from  his  loyal  subjects  in  general  and 
from  the  city  of  London  in  particular  was  "  an  enemy 
to  your  majesty's  person  and  family,  a  violator  of  the 
public  peace,  and  a  betrayer  of  our  happy  constitu- 
tion as  it  was  established  at  the  glorious  Revolution." 
Tremendous  excitement  followed  this  daring 
outburst,  and  Beckford  was  hailed  everywhere  with 
wondering  applause  as  one  that  had  ventured  single- 
handed  into  a  lion's  den  and  come  out  unbitten.  To 
speak  thus  to  a  king  and  escape  the  vengeful  bolts 
of  heaven  was  as  if  the  days  of  miracles  had  returned. 


THE  RISING  FLAME  189 

Beckford  became  a  popular  idol  and  a  fixed  star 
among  the  nation's  heroes,  his  bold  deed  being  to  this 
day  emblazoned  on  his  statue  in  the  Guildhall. 

This  was  the  storm  center  into  which  Chatterton 
projected  himself  and  where  he  was  become  in  four 
weeks  a  figure  of  consequence.  Beckford  knew  him 
personally  and  liked  him;  Wilkes  knew  his  work  very 
well,  and  told  Fell  it  was  simply  impossible  that  such 
writings  should  come  from  a  boy  of  eighteen  years 
and  he  was  eager  to  meet  such  a  marvel.  There  was 
some  understanding  of  active  cooperation  between 
Beckford  and  Chatterton  that  has  never  been  cleared 
up.  In  one  of  the  letters,  filled  with  cheering  and 
loving  messages,  that  the  boy  wrote  home,  he  in- 
timated something  of  the  kind  but  not  the  extent  to 
which  he  took  part  in  the  popular  party's  affairs. 
"You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  Lord  Mayor's 
remonstrating  and  addressing  the  king,"  he  says, 
"but  it  will  be  a  piece  of  news  to  inform  you  that  I 
have  been  with  the  Lord  Mayor  on  the  occasion." 
He  describes  briefly  his  first  meeting  with  Beckford 
and  adds,  "The  rest  is  a  secret."  It  has  remained 
a  secret,  but  the  popular  leaders  were  only  too  glad 
to  have  the  assistance  of  the  terrible  flail  of  that  pen. 


VI 

Now  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART 

So  far  as  that  he  had  won  his  upward  path.  It 
was  an  age  not  partial  to  boys.  Then  and  for  gen- 
erations afterward,  the  lot  of  children  in  the  world 
was  hard  enough.  The  dullard  time  seemed  to 
revenge  itself  for  its  own  shortcomings  by  making  the 
utmost  of  the  scant  superiority  of  years.  To  be 
seen  seldom  and  to  be  heard  not  at  all,  to  be  regarded 
as  enemies  of  adult  peace  and  complacency,  was  only 
part  of  the  iron  rule  for  childhood.  Dotheboys  Hall 
was  a  sadly  true  picture  and  it  came  in  a  later  and 
gentler  time.  To  know  the  horrid  and  tolerated 
cruelty  meted  out  in  the  eighteenth  century  to  boys, 
as  to  those  in  the  navy,  for  instance,  is  to  have  your 
blood  boil  at  the  senseless  tyranny.  Boys  seemed 
to  be  made  to  be  beaten,  to  be  frowned  upon,  sup- 
pressed and  disliked.  Yet  in  four  weeks  this  boy 
had  won  a  man's  place  among  the  leaders  of  his 
party.  Almost  his  first  step  on  reaching  London 
had  been  made  in  characteristic  fashion  toward  that 
acquaintance  with  Beckford  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
He  wrote  to  the  lord  mayor  a  letter  of  warm  congratu- 

190 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  191 

lation  upon  the  first  remonstrance  and  followed 
the  letter  in  person.  Beckford  received  him  with 
wonder,  no  doubt,  but  quickly  perceived  that  he  was 
dealing  with  no  ordinary  mind.  Indeed,  the  pol- 
ished address,  the  gravity  and  self-possession,  the 
extraordinary  command  of  language,  the  evidences  of 
thought  and  wide  acquaintance  with  affairs,  were 
irresistible.  The  mayor  was  exceedingly  affable,  and 
when  the  boy  offered  to  write  another  letter  further 
endorsing  the  policy  of  the  remonstrance  Beckford 
readily  enough  approved  and  was  evidently  sensible 
that  the  gods  had  raised  for  him  a  champion  of  un- 
usual gifts.  The  letter  was  written  and  the  leaders 
arranged  to  have  it  published  as  a  broadside  in  the 
revived  North  Briton. 

But  ail  this,  of  course,  had  little  or  nothing 
to  do  with  the  boy's  inner  life.  In  Shoreditch 
was  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Ballance,  but  neither  there 
nor  elsewhere  was  the  kind  of  companionship 
that  would  have  been  most  serviceable  to  him, 
the  sympathetic  understanding  of  his  nature  and 
aims,  the  interest  that  perceives  and  would  fain 
help.  In  the  midst  of  the  throngs  of  London  he 
was  more  truly  alone  than  he  had  been  in  Bristol. 
Mrs.  Ballance  had  expected,  doubtless,  to  find  a  boy 
like  the  rest  of  the  Chattertons  she  had  known. 
She  was  startled  and  nonplussed,  poor  woman,  to 
come  upon  a  genius  in  her  own  family.  One  scrap 


1 92  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  their  conversation  is  preserved.  When  he  came 
in  she  called  him  "Cousin  Tommy,"  for  he  seemed 
to  her  but  a  little  boy. 

He  drew  himself  up  with  indignant  pride. 

"Don't  call  me  Tommy,"  he  said  sharply. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  good  woman,  perplexed. 
"That  is  your  name,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  poet  named  Tommy  ?"  said 
the  boy  in  great  scorn. 

Mrs.  Ballance  could  make  nothing  of  him.  All  he 
seemed  to  care  to  talk  about  was  Wilkes,  the  popular 
revolt,  and  political  matters  that  were  truly  Greek  to 
her.  Once  he  frightened  her  into  the  border  land 
of  hysteria  by  announcing  that  he  hoped  presently 
to  be  sent  to  the  Tower.  In  all  her  recollections  no 
Chatterton  had  ever  been  sent  to  the  Tower.  He 
told  her  that  he  expected  to  settle  the  state  of  the 
nation,  and  probably  enjoyed  the  wide-mouthed 
wonder  which  with  she  received  the  information. 
He  seemed  to  her  hardly  human  in  his  way  of  life. 
He  cared  nothing  about  food,  which  argued  an 
abnormal  constitution  and  one  that  filled  his  cousin 
with  dismay.  He  was  supposed  to  board  with  her, 
but  his  boarding  was  something  like  the  feeding  of 
a  bird.  He  had  always  been  (like  Shelley  again) 
exceedingly  abstemious  in  this  regard.  Animal  food 
he  usually  rejected  on  his  old  theory  that  it  impaired 
the  clear  working  of  his  intellect.  A  tart  and  a  glass 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  193 

of  water  were  a  dinner  for  him.  He  never  drank 
wine  nor  liquor,  and  his  capacity  for  unremitting 
toil  amazed  the  simple  folk  around  him.  The 
plasterer's  nephew  thought  his  roommate  a  kind  of 
demon,  agreeable  enough,  but  still  a  demon,  for  he 
sat  writing  and  studying  far  into  the  night,  and  early 
in  the  morning  he  was  again  at  toil.  He  seemed  never 
to  sleep  and  seldom  to  eat.  The  nephew  saw  him 
once  or  twice  take  a  sheep's  tongue  from  his  pocket 
and  make  a  luncheon  upon  it,  barely  intermitting  his 
labor  even  for  the  slight  repast.  The  record  of 
his  ceaseless  activities  seems  incredible.  The  writ- 
ing he  produced  in  those  days  for  only  its  extent  and 
its  variety  of  subject  would  be  among  the  mysteries 
of  literature.  Few  authors  in  any  age  and  in  any 
length  of  time  have  covered  a  greater  range.  Pleas- 
ure he  hardly  knew  the  name  of.  If  he  went  to  the 
theater  or  the  fashionable  gardens,  or  to  the  Chapter 
Coffee  House,  it  was  to  gather  material  for  his  inter- 
minable work.  Bright-eyed  he  walked  the  crowded 
streets  looking  incessantly  for  the  things  he  was  to 
write  about.  A  tremendous  ambition  consumed  him; 
he  saw  the  fame  and  success  he  had  dreamed  about 
almost  within  his  reach,  and  between  the  little  room 
in  Shoreditch  and  the  publishing  offices  he  toiled 
back  and  forth  like  a  driven  slave. 

He  was,  indeed,  a  slave  to  the  publishers  of  the 
day.     For  almost  every  known  periodical  in  London 


194  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

he  was  a  contributor.  Everything  that  went  to  press 
was  (to  reverse  the  ancient  phrase)  a  mill  for  his 
grist.  To  the  Middlesex  Journal  and  the  Free- 
holders' Magazine  he  contributed  political  essays;  in 
Hamilton's  Town  and  Country  Magazine,  in  the 
London,  the  Court  and  City,  and  Gospel  Magazines, 
the  London  Museum  and  the  Political  Register  he  had 
many  miscellanies  in  prose  and  verse.  I  put  the 
Town  and  Country  first  because  with  that,  and  with 
Hamilton  the  editor  thereof,  he  had  most  to  do. 
In  this  periodical  appeared  a  series  of  eleven  clever 
sketches  of  contemporaneous  life,  mostly  written  in  the 
character  of  an  observer  about  town.  Some  of  these, 
the  letters  of  "Tony  Selwood"  for  instance,  are 
touched  with  a  keen  observation  and  clear  under- 
standing of  human  nature  and  some  show  evidences 
of  a  strong  narrative  power.  Many  of  his  writings 
were  pot-boilers,  and  one  paper,  the  story  of  "  Maria 
Friendless,"  was  a  paraphrase  of  a  tale  of  Johnson's 
in  the  Rambler.  Yet  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that 
pot-boilers  or  otherwise,  they  were  well  done.  The 
tone  of  literature  in  that  day  was  licentious.  Things 
were  printed  in  the  most  respectable  magazines  that 
to-day  could  not  be  printed  anywhere.  Writing  for 
daily  bread  and  naturally  not  much  concerned  about 
permanent  value  in  productions  so  ephemeral  and 
commercial,  Chatterton  often  followed  in  his  themes 
the  prevailing  fashions.  The  periodicals  he  wrote  for 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  195 

were  the  best  of  his  day,  and  these  things  were 
then  taken  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  some  of  his 
papers  reprinted  in  a  later  age  have  served  to  further 
in  an  undeserved  way  the  reputation  that  has  been 
manufactured  for  him  of  libertinism.  "The  Me- 
moirs of  a  Sad  Dog"  are  not  edifying  reading;  yet 
they  are  no  worse  than  many  other  sketches  that  were 
appearing  in  the  magazines.  The  productive  tide 
was  swollen,  too,  from  the  work  of  past  days.  From 
his  trunk  came  forth  many  things  that  had  budded 
in  Lambert's  dingy  office  and  had  escaped,  for  the 
use  now  found,  the  destroying  ringers  of  the  lawyer; 
such  things  as  so-called  translations  of  Saxon  poems, 
tales  and  articles,  and  he  even  sent  to  his  sister  for 
the  glossary  he  had  invented  for  Rowley,  heralding 
renewed  activities  by  that  excellent  poet. 

His  trade  as  a  satirist  in  prose  and  verse  gave  him 
an  opportunity  to  express  his  opinion  of  Horace 
Walpole,  and  the  way  he  availed  himself  of  it  made 
history.  Again  and  again  he  slashed  the  noble  lord 
with  the  keenest  blade  that  shone  in  those  times. 
In  the  satirical  poem  "Kew  Gardens,"  in  the  prose 
"Memoirs  of  a  Sad  Dog"  and  elsewhere,  Walpole 
repeatedly  figures  in  the  most  ridiculous  light  as  the 
"Baron  Otranto."  In  one  of  the  "Sad  Dog"  papers 
the  attack  is  particularly  ingenious,  since  it  takes 
the  earl  on  his  most  vulnerable  side,  his  posing  as 
a  dilettante  scientist  and  antiquarian.  Chatterton 


196  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

represents  him  as  visiting  at  a  country  house,  where 
in  the  dog;  kennel  he  discovers  a  stone  with  letters 

O 

engraved  upon  it.  It  is  in  fact  a  piece  of  an  old  tomb- 
stone that  has  fallen  to  such  base  uses  that  it  now 
keeps  the  dogs  from  crawling  through  a  hole  in  the 
wall;  but  the  Baron  Otranto  is  certain  that  he  has 
found  an  ancient  relic  of  great  value,  and  after  days 
of  solitary  study  announces  that  he  has  deciphered 
the  inscription.  It  means,  he  says,  that  the 
place  where  he  found  it  was  the  tomb  of  an  old 
British  saint  of  renown;  whereas  it  is  really 
the  gravestone  of  honest  Bill  Hicks.  Walpole  could 
never  have  seen  the  savage  reference  in  "  Kew  Gar- 
dens" to  his  foolish  performance  with  Kitty  Clive, 
the  actress,  for  whom  he  built  a  house  at  Twicken- 
ham, but  what  he  did  see  was  enough.  The  sar- 
casms were  done  in  that  bitter,  lancet-edged  style  of 
which  Chatterton  was  the  master,  and  might  have 
cut  to  the  quick  the  toughest  hide.  Walpole's  was 
not  of  that  kind;  like  all  men  that  are  unsure  of  them- 
selves and  cover  their  deficiencies  by  posing,  he  was 
particularly  sensitive  to  ridicule.  Years  afterward, 
when  the  author  of  "Kew  Gardens"  was  dead, 
the  attention  drawn  to  his  works  completed  his  re- 
venge for  the  insult  Walpole  had  put  upon  him, 
and  under  the  torture  Walpole  writhed  as  much  as 
might  be  desired.  But  it  was  a  costly  revenge,  for 
the  boy  being  dead  and  that  powerful  pen  of  his  at 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  197 

rest,  the  man  was  at  perfect  liberty  to  assail  him  in 
any  way  he  pleased,  and  the  way  he  chose  stained 
Chatterton's  reputation  for  more  than  a  century. 

Five  of  his  political  essays  were  printed  in  the 
Middlesex  Journal  in  the  month  of  May.  One  of 
them  was  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Hillsborough, 
the  Minister  of  Colonies,  who  was  held  largely 
responsible  for  the  troubles  in  America;  one  to  the 
king's  mother,  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales, 
whose  shadow  continued  to  fall  more  or  less  on  her 
son's  unhappy  reign;  one  to  North,  then  Prime  Minis- 
ter, and  one  to  the  Electors  of  Bristol.  The  Hills- 
borough  letter  is  to  us  the  most  interesting;  I  take 
an  extract  from  it  to  show  what  were  his  sympathies 
for  America  and  at  the  same  time  the  strength  of  the 
weapon  he  wielded: 

"  My  Lord,  —  If  a  constant  exercise  of  tyranny 
and  cruelty  has  not  steeled  your  heart  against  all 
sensations  of  compunction  and  remorse,  permit  me 
to  remind  you  of  the  recent  massacre  in  Boston.  It 
is  an  infamous  attribute  of  the  ministry  of  the  Thane  * 
that  what  his  tools  begin  in  secret  fraud  and  oppres- 
sion ends  in  murder  and  avowed  assassination.  Not 
contented  to  deprive  us  of  our  liberty,  they  rob  us  of 
our  lives,  knowing  from  a  sad  experience  that  the 
one  without  the  other  is  an  insupportable  burden. 
Your  lordship  has  bravely  distinguished  yourself 

1  He  means  Bute. 


198  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

among  the  ministers  of  the  present  reign.  Whilst 
North  and  the  instruments  of  his  royal  mistress 
settled  the  plan  of  operation,  it  was  your  part  to 
execute;  you  were  the  assassin  whose  knife  was  ever 
ready  to  finish  the  crime.  If  every  feeling  of  hu- 
manity is  not  extinct  in  you,  reflect,  for  a  moment 
reflect,  on  the  horrid  task  you  undertook  and  per- 
petrated," etc. 

In  the  Political  Register  were  printed  his  first  letter 
to  Beckford  and  "The  Prophecy,"  a  vigorous 
political  appeal;  in  the  Freeholders1  Magazine  for 
May  appeared  the  first  part  of  the  satirical  poem 
"Resignation"  of  which  I  have  before  spoken;  in 
the  London  Museum  for  May  "Narva  and  Mored," 
one  of  his  African  eclogues,  and  in  the  June  number 
"The  Death  of  Nicou,"  another  of  the  same  series; 
in  the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  appeared  an 
elegy  of  his,  "Maria  Friendless,"  "The  False  Step" 
(a  prose  story),  an  "Anecdote  of  Judge  Jeffries," 
"To  Miss  Burt  of  Bristol"  (a  sentimental  poem), 
and  his  "Hunter  of  Oddities"  papers;  in  the  Gospel, 
the  Court  and  City,  the  London  and  other  magazines 
were  many  short  contributions  from  his  pen  that  have 
never  been  recovered,  so  that  we  have  here  but  an 
imperfect  list  of  his  labors. 

He  was  also  busy  in  other  directions  to  further  his 
interests  and  to  extend  his  acquaintance.  The  Mer- 
maid Tavern  of  his  day  was  the  Chapter  Coffee  House 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  199 

in  Paternoster  Row,  and  he  went  there  frequently 
until  he  was  a  figure  somewhat  familiar  to  its 
literary  circle.  He  was  at  pains  to  dress  well,  to 
frequent  places  of  fashionable  resort,  the  theater 
and  the  garde/is.  He  made  acquaintances  on  all 
sides,  some  that  helped  his  harvesting,  and  what 
was  remarkable  in  a  young  fellow  first  from  home, 
none,  so  far  as  we  know,  that  was  injurious  to 
him. 

The  publishers  were  eager  to  have  his  contribu- 
tions; they  were  not  eager  to  pay  for  them.  It  was 
the  dawn  of  periodical  literature,  the  magazines  had 
small  circulation  and  small  profits;  most  of  them, 
accordingly,  depended  for  their  matter  upon  the 
gratuitous  offerings  of  ambitious  writers.  Few  maga- 
zines had  any  commercial  basis  or  were  conducted 
as  business  enterprises;  the  whole  vast  field  of  adver- 
tising was  yet  to  be  discovered  and  developed,  the 
magazines  were  the  growth  of  vanity,  whim,  or  politi- 
cal fervor.  When  contributions  were  paid  for  it 
was  at  a  rate  that  seems  to  us  mere  match  money. 
Yet  this  boy  was  making  headway  and  his  hope 
was  high.  The  appreciation  that  he  had  received 
did  not  turn  his  head  nor  unduly  exalt  his  spirits, 
and  he  labored  steadily  and  intelligently  toward  his 
goal. 

He  wrote  home  regularly  and  always  in  a  cheerful 
vein.  As  he  made  money  he  laid  aside  something  of 


200  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  little  income  for  presents  for  the  family  on  Red- 
clifFe  Hill,  remembering  the  grandmother  with  some 
of  her  favorite  tobacco  and  buying  gifts  of  china- 
ware  and  apparel  for  his  mother  and  sister.  He 
assured  them  constantly  that  they  should  share  his 
success  and  he  would  provide  for  them  every  com- 
fort. The  whole  wealth  of  an  affectionate  nature 
was  often  poured  out  in  these  letters;  no  trace  of  irri- 
tation or  concern  appeared  in  them;  they  had  only 
good  news  and  terms  of  affection.  Usually  they  are 
in  a  style  of  sprightly  good  humor.  He  wrote  to 
his  mother  this : 

SHOREDITCH,  LONDON:  May  6,  1770. 

DEAR  MOTHER,  —  I  am  surprised  that  no  letter  has  been 
sent  in  answer  to  my  last.  I  am  settled,  and  in  such  a  settlement 
as  I  would  desire.  I  get  four  guineas  a  week  by  one  magazine; 
shall  engage  to  write  a  history  of  England  and  other  pieces,  which 
will  more  than  double  that  sum.  Occasional  essays  for  the  daily 
papers  would  more  than  support  me.  What  a  glorious  prospect! 
Mr.  Wilkes  knew  me  by  my  writings  since  I  first  corresponded 
with  the  book-sellers  here.  I  shall  visit  him  next  week,  and  by 
his  interest  will  ensure  Mrs.  Ballance  the  Trinity  house.  He 
affirmed  that  what  Mr.  Fell  had  of  mine  could  not  be  the  writings 
of  a  youth,  and  expressed  a  desire  to  know  the  author.  By  the 
means  of  another  book-seller,  I  shall  be  introduced  to  Townshend 
and  Sawbridge.  I  am  quite  familiar  at  the  Chapter  Coffee 
House,  and  know  all  the  geniuses  there.  A  character  is  now 
unnecessary;  an  author  carries  his  character  in  his  pen.  My 
sister  will  improve  herself  in  drawing.  My  grandmother  is,  I 
hope,  well.  Bristol's  mercenary  walls  were  never  destined  to 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART     .201 

hold  me;  there  I  was  out  of  my  element;  now  I  am  in  it.  London! 
—  Good  God!  How  superior  is  London  to  that  despicable  place, 
Bristol!  Here  is  none  of  your  little  meannesses,  none  of  your 
mercenary  securities,  which  disgrace  that  miserable  hamlet. 
Dress,  which  is  in  Bristol  an  eternal  fund  of  scandal,  is  here  only 
introduced  as  a  subject  of  praise:  if  a  man  dresses  well,  he  has 
taste;  if  careless,  he  has  his  own  reasons  for  so  doing,  and  is  pru- 
dent. Need  I  remind  you  of  the  contrast  ?  The  poverty  of 
authors  is  a  common  observation,  but  not  always  a  true  one.  No 
author  can  be  poor  who  understands  the  arts  of  book-sellers:  with- 
out this  necessary  knowledge  the  greatest  genius  may  starve,  and 
with  it  the  greatest  dunce  live  in  splendour.  This  knowledge  I 
have  pretty  well  dipped  into.  —  The  Levant,  man-of-war,  in  which 
T.  Wensley1  went  out,  is  at  Portsmouth;  but  no  news  of  him  yet. 
I  lodge  in  one  of  Mr.  Walmsley's  best  rooms.  Let  Mr.  Cary  copy 
the  letters  on  the  other  side,  and  give  them  to  the  persons  for 
whom  they  are  designed,  if  not  too  much  labour  for  him.  — 
I  remain  yours  and  so  forth, 

T.  CHATTERTON. 

P.  S.  —  I  have  some  trifling  presents  for  my  mother,  sister, 
Thome,  et  cetera. 

The  character  of  the  boy  shone  out  in  his  refer- 
ence to  his  intentions  about  Mrs.  Ballance  as  well 
as  in  the  "trifling  presents."  His  first  natural  im- 
pulse if  he  gained  anything  was  to  use  it  for  some  one 
else.  His  influence  with  his  great  friends  he  pur- 
posed to  bend  for  Mrs.  Ballance's  benefit  to  secure 
for  her  the  Trinity  House  pension  for  the  widows  of 
seamen  in  the  navy. 

1  This  was  an  acquaintance  of  the  Chattertons. 


202  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

By  early  June  he  was  well  established,  his  path 
seemed  clear  to  him,  his  earnings  though  small  were 
sufficient  for  his  slender  needs,  and  there  seemed 
every  promise  that  his  dream  would  be  realized.  He 
saw  himself  on  the  verge  of  all  that  he  had  desired, 
fame  and  independence  within  his  grasp,  Rowley  to 
be  given  to  the  world,  the  work  that  was  his  life 
recognized  and  praised.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  a 
series  of  disasters  arose  to  crush  one  by  one  the 
fabric  of  his  hopes.  Reaction  and  absolutism,  with- 
out warning,  thrust  out  their  power  and  the  boy  was 
caught  in  the  falling  walls  of  their  overturning. 
Parliament,  after  weeks  of  fierce  discussion  of  the 
Wilkes  case,  adjourned  for  the  summer  holidays 
without  deciding  it.  Many  of  the  leaders  on  both 
sides  left  town,  Wilkes  himself  went  to  the  seashore, 
the  long  hard  battle  came  to  a  temporary  pause,  and 
the  government  seized  the  opportunity  to  move  in 
relentless  fashion  upon  its  enemies.  The  blows  fell 
in  rapid  succession.  Edmunds,  of  the  Middlesex 
Journal,  was  arrested  and  sentenced  to  Newgate 
Prison.  Fell,  of  the  Freeholders'  Magazine,  was  si- 
lenced and  ruined  by  being  thrust  into  King's  Bench 
jail  on  a  trumped-up  affair  of  debt.  Woodfall,  of 
the  Public  Advertiser,  the  publisher  of  Junius,  was 
haled  before  the  King's  Bench;  Almon,  of  the  London 
Museum,  before  Lord  Mansfield  in  Westminster  Hall. 
Miller,  of  the  London  Evening  Post,  was  arrested 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  203 

for  the  mere  reprinting  of  a  letter  of  Junius.  Un- 
controllable terror  fell  upon  the  opposition  press; 
in  a  moment  the  voice  of  revolt  was  stifled;  the 
democratic  campaign  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  the 
editors  and  publishers  still  out  of  jail  took  warning 
and  scrupulously  purified  their  columns  of  the  slight- 
est word  of  dissent,  and  for  the  time  being  progress 
turned  backward. 

At  one  stroke,  therefore,  the  greater  part  of 
Chatterton's  market  disappeared.  All  his  friends 
and  associates  were  in  jail,  or  in  flight,  or  silenced. 
It  may  be  believed  that  there  never  was  a  braver  heart. 
The  blow  he  took  full  in  the  face  and  instantly  he 
prepared  to  retrieve  it.  Writing  to  his  sister  of  these 
events  he  declared  that  they  would  in  the  end  be 
to  his  benefit,  for  the  magazines  would  still  be  pub- 
lished, though  their  editors  were  in  jail,  and  the 
demand  for  his  work  would  be  the  greater.  But 
he  must  have  known  better;  he  must  have  known, 
in  fact,  how  the  structure  of  his  fortunes  tottered, 
for  he  now  set  about  enlarging  the  field  of  his  em- 
ployments. 

The  triumph  of  reaction  and  the  overwhelming  of 
the  opposition  were  not  all;  it  was  Fell  that  was  to 
bring  Chatterton  and  Wilkes  together,  and  Fell  was 
now  in  prison.  Chatterton  had  counted  much  on  the 
introduction  and  doubtless  saw  how  he  could  utilize  it 
to  his  advantage,  and  now  it  was  suddenly  taken  from 


204  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

him.  Yet  worse  remained  behind.  In  the  midst 
of  his  misfortunes  and  the  defeats  of  his  party,  Beck- 
ford  still  stood,  the  invincible,  that  looked  upon  the 
king  and  unterrified  spoke  his  mind,  Beckford  from 
whom  he  confidently  expected  to  have  advance- 
ment. And  suddenly,  Beckford  died.  For  a  mo- 
ment at  this  culminating  misfortune  the  boy's  steady 
self-command  gave  way.  He  stormed  up  and  down 
Mrs.  Ballance's  room  at  Shoreditch,  declaring  that 
he  was  ruined,  and  all  was  over  with  him.  The  good 
Ballance  was  astonished  at  his  agitation,  which, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  understanding  between  the 
boy  and  the  mayor,  seemed  unaccountable  to  her. 
The  storm  passed  and  once  more  he  sat  down  sternly 
to  outface  disaster.  He  turned  the  death  of  his 
friend  to  immediate  account  by  writing  elegies  and 
essays  upon  him,  and  these  he  managed  to  sell.  The 
second  letter  to  Beckford,  which  had  been  accepted 
by  Bingley's  North  Briton,  and  was  all  but  to  fill 
the  next  issue  of  that  revived  periodical,  was  now  of 
necessity  returned  to  him,  an  additional  blow  to  his 
prospects  and  a  loss  of  almost  two  pounds  in  money. 
Outside  he  showed  an  unshaken  front.  To  his 
friend  Gary,  in  Bristol,  he  made  light  of  the  mis- 
fortune of  Beckford's  death  by  writing  for  him  the 
following  memorandum: 

"Accepted    by    Bingley,    set   for,  and     thrown    out    of,    the 
North  Briton,  2lst  June,  on  account  of  Lord  Mayor's  death: 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  205 

£     *    * 
Lost  by  his  death  on  this  Essay I     II    6 

Gained  in  Elegies 2      2     o 

Gained  in  Essays 3     3    o 

550 
Am  glad  he  is  dead  by. . . 

£3    13   6" 

But  he  was  under  no  deception  as  to  the  situation 
he  fronted  and  with  desperation  he  fought  for  every 
chance.  Among  the  acquaintances  he  had  made 
(this  time  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theater)  was  a 
young  man  connected  with  a  music  publisher's  house 
in  Cheapside.  When  he  learned  that  Chatterton 
could  write,  this  young  man  put  him  in  the  way  of 
writing  songs  to  be  set  to  music  and  introduced 
him  to  a  composer.  Soon  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  some  of  his  songs  sung  in  public  at  the  gar- 
dens, and  while  the  income  from  this  source  was  very 
small  it  was  a  guide-post  to  a  more  promising  field. 
One  of  the  three  popular  summer  gardens  then  in 
operation  in  London  was  the  Marylebone.  It  was 
here  that  Chatterton  heard  his  songs  in  the  part  of 
the  entertainment  (a  kind  of  primitive  vaudeville) 
that  was  given  from  the  stage,  promenading  to  the 
music  of  the  band  being  the  other  attraction.  While 
at  Bristol  he  had  begun  and  thrown  aside  a  burlesque 
operetta  that  he  now  conceived  would  be  available 
for  use  at  this  resort.  He  had  called  it  "Amphitryon" 


206  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

and  made  it  somewhat  heavier  than  London  taste 
called  for.  This  now  came  out  of  his  trunk  and 
underwent  a  speedy  recasting.  "The  Revenge"  he 
rechristened  it.  The  story  turns  on  the  wrath  of 
Juno  at  the  discovery  that  Jupiter  has  gone  love- 
making  after  Maia.  It  is  exceedingly  funny,  the 
quarreling  of  Jupiter  and  Juno  being  managed  with 
great  spirit  and  cleverness;  very  easily  one  may  see 
how  with  equally  effective  music  the  thing  would  go 
with  immense  effect.  A  swift  succession  of  songs  in 
different  quick-footed  meters  gives  the  whole  a  sur- 
passingly lively  air.  The  songs  are  interspersed  with 
short  recitatives;  the  whole  thing  is  in  verse.  I  will 
give  a  taste  of  its  quality  by  quoting  the  beginning 
of  the  first  act : 

Jupiter  (recitative) 

I  swear  by  Styx,  the  usage  is  past  bearing; 
My  lady  Juno  ranting,  tearing,  swearing! 
Why,  what  the  devil  will  my  godship  do, 
If  blows  and  thunder  cannot  tame  a  shrew  ? 

Air 

Tho'  the  loud  thunder  rumbles, 
Tho'  storms  rend  the  sky; 
Yet  louder  she  grumbles, 
And  swells  the  sharp  cry. 

Her  jealousy  teasing, 
Disgusting  her  form; 
Her  music  as  pleasing 
As  pigs  in  a  storm. 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  207 

I  fly  her  embraces, 
To  wenches  more  fair; 
And  leave  her  wry  faces, 
Cold  sighs  and  despair. 

Cupid  comes  to  tell  Juno  that  her  lord  has  gone 
to  meet  Maia. 

Juno 
Howl  What!  When!  Where!  —  nay,  pri'  thee  now  unfold  it. 

Cupid 

'Gad  —  so  I  will;  for  faith  I  cannot  hold  it. 
His  mighty  godship  in  a  fiery  flurry 
Met  me  just  now  —  confusion  to  his  hurry! 
I  stopt  his  way,  forsooth,  and  with  a  thwack, 
He  laid  a  thunderbolt  across  my  back: 
Bless  me!  I  feel  it  now  —  my  short  ribs  ache  yet  — 
I  vow'd  revenge,  and  now  by  Styx  I'll  take  it. 
Miss  Maia,  in  her  chamber,  after  nine 
Receives  the  thund'rer,  in  his  robes  divine. 
I  undermined  it  all;  see,  here's  the  letter  — 
Could  dukes  spell  worse,  whose  tutors  spell  no  better  ? 
You  know  false  spelling  now  is  much  the  fashion  — 

yuno 
Lend  me  your  drops  —  Oh!  I  shall  swoon  with  passion! 

There  is  much  broad  comedy  when  Bacchus  is 
brought  roistering  in,  and  local  and  topical  refer- 
ences that  must  have  been  salad  to  a  smart  London 
audience.  In  fact  the  whole  thing  is  infinitely  divert- 
ing, witty,  and  bright  and  must  have  shown  Chatter- 


208  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

ton  that  he  had  a  facility  in  light  catchy  verse  as 
well  as  in  the  somber  strains  of  a  more  enduring  art. 

"The  Revenge"  was  submitted  to  Atterbury,  pro- 
prietor of  Marylebone  Gardens.  He  accepted  it  and 
paid  Chatterton  five  guineas  for  it,1  the  largest  sum 
the  boy  ever  received  for  any  work  and  the  only 
instance  when  his  wage  approximated  his  labor. 
The  piece  was  acted  at  the  gardens,  but  not  until 
some  months  after  its  acceptance,  other  matters 
probably  intervening. 

Encouraged  by  the  success  of  "The  Revenge," 
he  now  undertook  another  comedy,  this  time  in  prose, 
"The  Woman  of  Spirit,"  but  did  not  complete  it. 
He  had,  meantime,  changed  his  lodging  from  the 
plasterer's  at  Shoreditch  to  Brooke  Street,  Holborn, 
No.  39,  where  he  rented  a  front  room  in  the  attic  of 
Mrs.  Frederick  Angell,  a  dressmaker.  He  had 
various  reasons  for  making  the  change,  but  the 
strongest  was  that  he  saw  the  rapid  decline  of  his 
prospects  in  the  ruin  of  his  friends,  and  his  pride 
would  not  let  him  reveal  to  his  relatives  how  straight- 
ened were  his  circumstances  and  how  closely  he 
must  economize  to  avoid  imminent  disaster.  They 
might  write  of  it  to  his  mother.  The  five  guineas  he 
had  of  Atterbury  merely  sufficed  to  tide  him  over  for 
two  or  three  weeks  and  meantime  next  to  nothing  was 
coming  in.  From  the  first  his  pay  had  been  wretched. 

1  According  to  a  note  by  one  of  Chatterton's  editors  the  manuscript  of 
this  woik  was  subsequently  sold  for  150  pounds. 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  209 

For  sixteen  songs  that  Hamilton  bought  of  him  for 
the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  he  had  received 
but  10  shillings  6  pence;  for  the  long  satirical  poem 
of  the  "Consuliad"  Fell  paid  him  10  shillings  6  pence; 
paragraphs  in  the  Town  and  Country  brought  2  shil- 
lings; a  variety  of  work  in  the  Middlesex  Journal,  for 
May,  including  the  political  essays  I  have  described 
and  quoted  from,  earned  only  I  pound,  1 1  shillings, 
6  pence.  His  entire  earnings  for  the  month  of  May 
(on  the  whole  his  most  prosperous  month)  were  only 
4  pounds,  15  shillings,  9  pence.  In  June  he  earned 
3  pounds,  13  shillings,  6  pence  in  essays  and  elegies 
on  Beckford's  death,  but  he  published  at  his  own 
expense  a  more  elaborate  elegy  on  his  friend  and 
this  ate  into  his  little  capital. 

And  yet  enough  money  was  owing  him  at  this 
time  to  support  him  in  comfort,  despite  the  diffi- 
culties created  by  the  resurgence  of  feudalism; 
Hamilton  of  the  Town  and  Country,  for  instance,  had 
accepted  of  him  manuscripts  that  he  continued  to 
publish  for  more  than  a  year.  But  the  boy's  pride 
would  not  let  him  complain  of  these  conditions.  It 
was  his  old  story,  the  old  familiar  tryanny  of  the 
strong  upon  the  weak.  They  were  men,  he  was  a 
boy,  and  they  took  full  advantage  of  the  superior 
position. 

Hence  for  the  majority  of  the  writings  that  with 
such  infinite  toil  he  produced  in  those  lonely  months 
in  London  he  received  nothing;  for  the  rest  he  had 


210  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

pittances,  the  price  of  a  slender  meal,  may  be  a  few 
shillings  at  the  most. 

Among  the  works  that  Hamilton  shortly  had  of 
him  was  another  flight  of  song  from  Rowley.  The 
glossary  from  Bristol  had  arrived  and  in  the  quiet 
attic  in  Brooke  Street  Rowley  lifted  up  his  voice 
again  and  sang  at  his  sweetest  and  to  this  effect: 

AN    EXCELENTE     BALADE    OF    CHARITIE: 

as  wroten  bie  the  gode  prieste 
Thomas  Rowleie,  1464 

1  In  Virgo  now  the  sultry  sun  did  sheene, 
And  hot  upon  the  meads  did  cast  his  ray; 
The  apple  reddened  from  its  paly  green, 
And  the  soft  pear  did  bend  the  leafy  spray; 
The  pied  chelandry2  sang  the  live  long  day; 
'Twas  now  the  pride,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 
And  eke  the  ground  was  decked  in  its  most  deft  aumere.3 

The  sun  was  gleaming  in  the  midst  of  day, 
Dead-still  the  air,  and  eke  the  welkin  blue, 
When  from  the  sea  arose  in  drear  array 
A  heap  of  clouds  of  sable  sullen  hue, 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodland  drew, 
Hiding  at  once  the  red  sun's  festive  face, 
And  the  black  tempest  swelled,  and  gathered  up  apace. 

Beneath  a  holm,4  fast  by  a  pathway  side, 
Which  did  unto  Saint  Godwin's  convent  lead, 

1  The  text  as  here  given  is  modernized,  but  I  fear  indifferently.  As 
so  often  before  noted  in  these  pages  only  the  original  can  show  Chatterton's 
real  art.  2  goldfinch.  3  mantle.  4  holly  tree. 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  211 

A  hapless  pilgrim  moaning  did  abide. 
Poor  in  his  view,  ungentle  in  his  weed, 
Long  brimful  of  the  miseries  of  need, 
Where  from  the  hailstorm  could  the  beggar  fly  ? 
He  had  no  houses  there,  nor  any  convent  nigh. 

Look  in  his  gloomy  face,  his  sprite  there  scan; 
How  woe-begone,  how  withered,  dwindled,  dead! 
Haste  to  thy  church-glebe-house,  thou  wretched  man! 
Haste  to  thy  shroud,  thine  only  sleeping  bed. 
Cold  as  the  clay  that  will  rest  on  thy  head 
Are  Charity  and  Love  among  high  elves; 
For  knights  and  barons  live  for  pleasure  and  themselves. 

The  gathered  storm  is  ripe;  the  big  drops  fall, 
The  sun-burnt  meadows  smoke,  and  drink  the  rain; 
The  coming  ghastness  doth  the  kine  appal, 
And  the  full  flocks  are  driving  o'er  the  plain; 
Dashed  from  the  clouds,  the  waters  rise  again; 
The  welkin  opes,  the  yellow  lightning  flies, 
And  the  hot  fiery  steam  in  the  wide  flashings  dies. 

List!  now  the  thunder's  startling  noisy  sound 
Moves  slowly  on,  and  then  full-swollen  clangs, 
Shakes  the  high  spire,  and  lost,  expended,  drowned, 
Still  on  the  affrighted  ear  of  terror  hangs. 
The  winds  are  up;  the  lofty  elmtree  swangs: 
Again  the  lightning,  and  the  thunder  pours, 
And  the  full  clouds  are  burst  at  once  in  torrent  showers. 

Spurring  his  palfrey  o'er  the  watery  plain, 
The  Abbot  of  Saint  Godwin's  convent  came; 
His  chapournette1  was  all  a-drench  with  rain, 
His  pointed  girdle  met  with  mickle  stain; 
1  A  small  round  hat. 


212  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

He  backwards  told  his  beadroll  at  the  same;1 
The  storm  increasing  then  he  drew  aside 
With  the  poor  alms-craver  near  to  the  holm  to  bide. 

His  cope  was  all  of  Lincoln  cloth  so  fine, 
With  a  gold  button  fastened  near  his  chin, 
His  autremete2  was  edged  with  golden  twine, 
And  his  shoe's  peak  a  noble's  might  have  been; 
Full  well  it  showed  he  thought  great  cost  no  sin. 
The  trammels  of  his  palfrey  pleased  his  sight, 
For  the  horse-milliner  his  head  with  roses  dight. 

"An  alms,  sir  priest!"  the  drooping  pilgrim  said, 
"Oh!  let  me  wait  within  your  convent-door 
Till  the  sun  shineth  high  above  our  head, 
And  the  loud  tempest  of  the  air  is  o'er. 
Helpless  and  old  am  I,  alas!  and  poor. 
No  house,  no  friend,  no  money  in  my  pouch, 
All  that  I  call  my  own  is  this  my  silver  crouche."  3 

"Varlet!"  replied  the  abbot,  "cease  your  din; 
This  is  no  season  alms  and  prayers  to  give; 
My  porter  never  lets  a  fajtour4  in; 
None  touch  my  ring  who  not  in  honor  live." 
And  now  the  sun  with  the  black  clouds  did  strive, 
And  shot  upon  the  ground  his  glaring  ray; 
The  abbot  spurred  his  steed,  and  eftsoon  rode  away. 

Once  more  the  sky  was  black,  the  thunder  rolled. 
Fast  running  o'er  the  plain  a  priest  was  seen. 
Not  dight  full  proud,  nor  buttoned  up  in  gold, 
His  cope  and  jape  were  grey,  and  eke  were  clean; 

1  Chatterton  explained  this  in  his  own  notes  as  a  form  of  cursing. 

2  A  loose  white  robe.  3  cross.  4  beggar. 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  213 

A  limitor1  he  was  of  order  seen; 
And  from  the  pathway  then  aside  turned  he, 
Where  the  poor  beggar  lay  beneath  the  holmen  tree. 

"An  alms,  sir  priest!"  the  drooping  pilgrim  said, 
"For  sweet  Saint  Mary  and  your  order's  sake." 
The  limitor  then  loosened  his  pouch-thread, 
And  did  thereout  a  groat  of  silver  take: 
The  needy  pilgrim  did  for  gladness  shake. 
"Here,  take  this  silver,  it  may  ease  thy  care, 
We  are  God's  stewards  all,  naught  of  our  own  we  bear. 

"But  ah!  unhappy  pilgrim,  learn  of  me: 
Scarce  any  give  a  rentroll  to  their  lord; 
Here,  take  my  semicope,  thou'rt  bare,  I  see, 
'Tis  thine;  the  saints  will  give  me  my  reward." 
He  left  the  pilgrim  and  his  way  aborde. 
Virgin  and  holy  saints,  who  sit  in  gloure, 
Or  give  the  mighty  will,  or  give  the  good  man  power! 

This  eloquent  cry  of  a  soul  that  had  felt  the  pinch 
of  the  world's  inhumanity  and  learned  the  rarity  of 
human  chanty,  Hamilton,  for  some  reason,  rejected; 
the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  had  published 
scores  of  less  effective  works  from  the  same  pen. 

He  continued  to  write  home  the  bravest  letters, 
full  of  courage  and  cheering  news  and  to  lay  out  a 
part  of  his  small  earnings  in  presents  for  the  three 
persons  to  whom  his  affections  clung  so  steadfastly 
that  now  no  one  can  unmoved  read  of  their  expres- 
sion. He  received  his  five  guineas  from  Atterbury 

1  A  licensed  begging  friar. 


214  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

on  July  6  and  went  at  once  to  buy  presents  for  Bristol. 
He  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  facing  sore  trouble 
and  very  likely  want.  With  a  great-hearted  gener- 
osity for  which  he  has  never  had  credit,  he  utterly  dis- 
regarded his  own  possible  needs  to  give  pleasure  to 
others.  On  July  8  he  wrote  to  his  mother  as  follows: 

"DEAR  MOTHER,  —  I  send  you  in  the  box,  six  cups  and 
saucers  with  two  basins  for  my  sister.  If  a  china  teapot  and 
creampot  is  in  your  opinion,  necessary,  I  will  send  them;  but  I 
am  informed  they  are  unfashionable,  and  that  the  red  china, 
which  you  are  provided  with,  is  more  in  use.  A  cargo  of  patterns 
for  yourself,  with  a  snuffbox,  right  French,  and  very  curious  in 
my  opinion. 

Two  fans  —  the  silver  one  is  more  grave  than  the  other,  which 
would  suit  my  sister  best.  But  that  I  leave  to  you  both.  Some 
British  herb  snuff,  in  the  box;  be  careful  how  you  open  it.  (This 
I  omit  lest  it  injure  the  other  matters.)  Some  British  herb  tobacco 
for  my  grandmother;  some  trifles  for  Thome.  Be  assured  when- 
ever I  have  the  power,  my  will  won't  be  wanting  to  testify  that 
I  remember  you. 

Yours, 
T.  CHATTERTON. 

N.  B.  —  I  shall  forestall  your  intended  journey,  and  pop  down 
upon  you  at  Christmas. 

I  could  have  wished  you  had  sent  my  red  pocket-book,  as  'tis 
very  material. 

I  bought  two  very  curious  twisted  pipes  for  my  grandmother; 
but  both  breaking,  I  was  afraid  to  buy  others  lest  they  should 
break  in  the  box;  and  being  loose,  injure  the  china.  .  .  . 

Direct  for  me  at  Mrs.  Angell's,  Sackmaker,  Brook-street, 
Holborn. 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  215 

To  Mary  he  wrote: 

DEAR  SISTER,  —  I  have  sent  you  some  china  and  a  fan.  You 
have  your  choice  of  two.  I  am  surprised  that  you  chose  purple 
and  gold.  I  went  into  the  shop  to  buy  it;  but  it  is  the  most  dis- 
agreeable colour  I  ever  saw  —  dead,  lifeless,  and  inelegant. 
Purple  and  pink,  or  lemon  and  pink,  are  more  genteel  and  lively. 
Your  answer  in  this  affair  will  oblige  me.  Be  assured,  that  I 
shall  ever  make  your  wants  my  wants;  and  stretch  to  the  utmost 
to  serve  you.  Remember  me  to  Miss  Sandford,  Miss  Rumsey, 
Miss  Singer,  &c. 

As  to  the  songs,  I  have  waited  this  week  for  them,  and  have 
not  had  time  to  copy  one  perfectly;  when  the  season's  over,  you 
will  have  'em  all  in  print.  I  had  pieces  last  month  in  the  follow- 
ing magazines: 

Gospel  Magazine. 
Town  and  Country,  viz: 

"Maria  Friendless" 
"False  Step" 
"Hunter  of  Oddities" 
"To  Miss  Bush,"  &c. 

Court  and  City,  London,  Political  Register,  &c. 
The  Christian  Magazine,  as  they  are  not  to  be  had  perfect, 
are  not  worth  buying. 

I  remain,  yours, 

T.  CHATTERTON. 
July  II,  1770. 

I  am  now  about  an  Oratorio,  which,  when  finished,  will  pur- 
chase you  a  gown.  You  may  be  certain  of  seeing  me  before  the 
1st  January,  1771. — The  clearance  is  immaterial.  —  My  mother 
may  expect  more  patterns.  —  Almost  all  the  next  Town  and  Coun- 
try Magazine  is  mine.  I  have  an  universal  acquaintance;  my 


2l6  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

company  is  courted  everywhere;  and,  could  I  humble  myself  to 
go  into  a  comptor,  could  have  had  twenty  places  before  now;  — 
but  I  must  be  among  the  great;  state  matters  suit  me  better  than 
commercial.  The  ladies  are  not  out  of  my  acquaintance.  I 
have  a  deal  of  business  now,  and  must  therefore  bid  you  adieu. 
You  will  have  a  longer  letter  from  me  soon  —  and  more  to  the 
purpose. 

Yours, 

T.  C. 
20th  July,  1770. 

July  drifted  by  in  a  fierce  dogged  struggle  against 
bare  necessity.  He  was  like  a  land-bird  blown  out 
to  sea  and  struggling  with  almost  exhausted  wings 
against  the  certain  fate  of  the  waves.  August  came, 
the  great  town  was  very  dull,  the  magazines  were 
inert,  the  powerful  and  rich  and  happy  all  gone 
away,  the  tired  drudge  of  Brooke  Street  fighting  on 
alone.  Casting  about  for  some  hope  when  his  for- 
tunes began  to  go  awry  he  had  thought  of  a  position 
as  surgeon's  mate  on  a  ship  to  Africa.  In  these 
deepening  troubles  the  idea  recurred  to  him.  He 
had  studied  medicine  and  probably  knew  as  much 
of  it  as  many  practising  physicians  of  that  age.  In 
one  of  his  letters  to  his  mother  he  had  given  such 
advice  for  the  treatment  of  a  sick  friend  of  the  family 
as  showed  that  he  could  put  his  studies  to  practical 
use.  To  be  surgeon's  mate  on  an  African  ship  in 
those  days  required  no  more  abstruse  medical  knowl- 
edge than  the  correct  doses  of  a  few  standard  drugs 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  217 

and  how  to  set  a  broken  limb.  Chatterton  felt 
that  he  possessed  so  much.  But  to  secure  the  posi- 
tion it  was  needful  that  he  should  have  an  endorse- 
ment, and  he  turned  to  his  old  friend  Barrett  of 
Bristol.  Writing  to  Catcott  August  12,  after  some 
paragraphs  of  apparently  light-hearted  raillery  and 
comments  of  no  moment,  through  which  disguise  it 
is  quite  possible  to  see  the  tortured  soul,  he  brings  on 
at  the  last,  with  an  obviously  assumed  unconcern,  the 
plea  that  prompted  the  letter: 

"I  intend  going  abroad  as  a  surgeon.  Mr.  Barrett  has  it  in 
his  power  to  assist  me  greatly,  by  his  giving  me  a  physical  charac- 
ter. I  hope  he  will.  I  trouble  you  with  a  copy  of  an  Essay  I 
intend  publishing,"  etc. 

He  wrote  also  to  Barrett  himself,  preferring  the 
same  request.  About  August  18  he  had  Barrett's 
answer.  It  consisted  of  a  cold  refusal.1 

At  Mrs.  Angell's  he  had  the  attic,  square  and,  for 
an  attic,  rather  large.  It  had  dormer  latticed  win- 
dows that  looked  toward  the  street.  In  front  of  the 
windows  were  a  gutter  and  a  low  parapet  wall,  but 
with  an  effort  it  was  possible  for  one  to  look  down 
upon  the  passing  throngs  below.  The  roof  every- 

1  Even  this  gratuitous  cruelty  has  not  lacked  its  defenders.  There  was 
practically  no  science  of  medicine  in  those  days.  Scores  of  men  that  knew 
far  less  about  drugs  than  Chatterton  knew  were  afloat  as  surgeon's  mates. 
When  Smollett  went  to  sea  in  that  capacity  he  probably  was  not  so  well 
equipped  for  the  post  as  Chatterton  would  have  been. 


2l8  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

where  was  so  low  that  in  the  highest  place  the  boy 
could  hardly  stand  erect  with  his  hat  on.  It  sloped 
gradually  from  the  ridge-pole  to  the  windows,  which 
admitted  the  morning  sunlight  when  any  might  be, 
and  from  which  there  was  a  view  of  St.  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral dome.  Over  it  morning  after  morning  he  saw  the 
sun  rise  as  he  sat  toiling  at  his  tasks,  and  again  the 
afternoon  come  and  gild  it,  the  great  curves  look 
ruddy,  the  last  glow  fade  slowly  away  as  the  day  died. 
So  much  it  had  meant  to  him  in  his  dreams!  This 
was  the  very  sign  of  the  wonderful  London  that  back 
in  Bristol,  where  his  mother  and  sister  were,  he  had 
so  often  pictured  to  himself.  About  that  great  dome 
were  the  shops  of  the  book-sellers  that  were  to  have 
made  him  famous  and  brought  for  him  the  money 
to  make  the  household  happy.  His  works  were  to 
have  been  sold  about  that  place,  he  had  always 
thought  so,  and  now  there  were  only  cold  looks  and 
shut  doors.  It  was  all  so  different;  so  different  from 
those  first  good  days,  even.  The  publishers  had  wel- 
comed him  then,  and  had  wanted  him  to  write  more 
and  more,  and  now  no  one  seemed  to  care  for  any- 
thing he  wrote.  Hamilton,  of  the  'Town  and  Coun- 
try, had  been  glad  to  print  "Elinoure  and  Juga," 
and  now  he  rejected  that  "Excelente  Balade  of 
Charitie,"  that  the  boy  knew  was  worth  a  dozen 
of  the  other.  And  the  battlefield  was  quite  de- 
serted and  silent;  only  a  few  weeks  ago  he  was  a 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  219 

leader  among  men,  and  now  he  was  forgotten,  the 
army  he  had  fought  with  beaten  and  dispersed. 
There  was  the  reward  of  his  labor  justly  due  him, 
and  to  every  intimation  that  he  would  like  to  have 
the  debt  paid  he  received  nothing  but  black  looks 
and  frigid  answers.  The  world  had  been  against 
him  from  the  first.  He  had  been  beaten  for  reading 
and  dreaming  about  the  tomb  of  Canynge,  when  he 
meant  no  harm  to  any  one,  but  only  wanted  to  be 
alone  with  his  thoughts  and  his  tears.  He  had  been 
beaten  for  writing  poetry,  and  how  could  that  hurt 
any  one  or  be  a  crime  ?  Only  because  he  was  a  boy 
and  poor  and  obscure  he  had  been  despised  and 
insulted  by  the  man  to  whom  he  had  turned 
for  help.  And  now  the  world  of  men,  so  much 
bigger  and  stronger  than  he,  was  cheating  him  of  the 
earnings  of  his  toil  because  he  was  a  boy,  merely  a 
boy.  Was  there  any  place  in  the  world  for  the  weak 
and  the  unhappy  ?  What  was  all  mankind  organ- 
ized for  but  for  the  strong  to  prey  upon  the  weak  and 
to  trample  to  success  over  broken  hearts  ?  And  it  was 
all  so  different  from  what  he  had  imagined.  Where 
were  all  his  bright  dreams  now  ?  And  what  should 
he  say  to  his  mother  that  had  expected  such  glo- 
rious achievement  from  him  ?  And  there  was  the 
dome,  the  symbol  of  his  hope,  and  every  morning  it 
shone  upon  him  just  as  it  had  shone  when  the  world 
was  bright  and  his  future  so  alluring.  And  of  all 
that  what  remained  ? 


220  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

One  thing  was  certain,  the  little  household  at 
Bristol  must  know  nothing  about  his  distress.  So 
he  set  himself  to  compose  a  letter  in  his  old  vein  of 
raillery  and  good  spirits.  He  jested  as  usual  about 
the  people  he  had  met  and  the  things  he  had  seen, 
and  told  them  a  story  —  very  doubtful  —  about  an 
adventure  of  his  own  in  a  graveyard  where  he  said 
he  had  accidentally  fallen  into  a  new-made  grave, 
but  had  found  the  sexton  under  him  and  emerged 
with  laughter.  But  all  would  not  do;  the  gaiety  was 
too  forced  to  deceive  the  ready  clairvoyance  of  a 
mother.  Mrs.  Chatterton  saw  from  this  letter  that 
something  was  wrong,  that  the  boy  was  trying  to  con- 
ceal something  from  her,  and  from  that  time  she  was 
distressed  about  him.  She  called  in  Mrs.  Edkins 
to  read  to  her  the  letter  and  tell  her  fears  about  it, 
and  the  two  wept  over  the  reading.  It  was  all  gay 
and  brave  and  light-hearted,  but  in  it  there  was  a 
note  of  forced  laughter  more  terrifying  than  despair. 

And  yet  in  his  misery  he  fronted  the  world  with 
unshaken  courage  and  a  heart  as  tender  as  brave. 
A  part  of  the  last  money  he  received  he  had  devoted 
to  the  happiness  and  comfort  of  the  little  household 
at  Bristol,  and  now,  wretched  as  he  was,  he  heard 
the  appeals  of  others  in  trouble  like  his  own.  His 
last  little  pocket-book,  recently  acquired  by  the  Bristol 
Museum,  tells  the  story  entered  in  his  neat  hand  and 
with  his  methodical  care.  There  was  owing  to  him, 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART     221 

it  shows,  £ i o,  175.  6d.  for  the  articles  that  he  had 
sent  to  the  magazines.  And  there  are  two  little 
entries  that  lay  bare  his  very  soul.  "Lent  2s."  and 
"Lent  is.  6d."  There  was  no  distress  that  could 
chill  the  boundless  generosity  of  that  spirit. 

At  last  his  money  was  all  gone;  for  some  days  he 
had  been  starving.  His  wan,  haggard  face  and 
feverish  anxiety  began  to  attract  attention.  At  the 
corner  of  Brooke  Street  and  Holborn,  a  short  dis- 
tance from  Mrs.  Angell's,  one  Cross,  a  kindly  man, 
kept  an  apothecary  shop.  Chatterton  had  made 
some  acquaintance  with  him  and  it  had  fared  with 
him  as  with  all  other  capable  minds  that  knew  the 
boy;  the  charm  of  brilliant  conversation,  the  poise, 
the  frank  manner,  and  the  marvelous  eyes  had  won 
him  with  the  rest.  He  suspected  that  all  was  not  well 
with  his  young  friend  and  cautiously  invited  him  to 
dine.  Chatterton  declined;  but  the  invitation  being 
renewed  on  several  occasions  as  Cross  observed  the 
boy  passing  in  the  street,  at  last  it  was  accepted  and 
Cross  was  rather  shocked  to  see  how  voraciously  his 
guest  ate.  Mrs.  Angell,  too,  a  motherly  good  soul, 
had  an  eye  on  him.  She  was  confident  that  for  two 
days  together  he  had  eaten  nothing,  and  waylaying 
him  on  the  stairs  urged  him  to  share  her  meal.  But 
something  in  the  well-meant  invitation  went  awry 
and  struck  up  that  overweening  pride.  He  curtly 
refused  and  assured  her  he  was  not  hungry. 


222  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

This  was  on  August  24,  1770,  when  he  was  seven- 
teen years  and  nine  months  old.  Some  time  before  he 
had  obtained  a  little  arsenic,  some  persons  have  sup- 
posed of  Cross  on  the  plea  that  he  wished  to  poison 
the  rats  in  his  chamber.  On  this  evening  he  retired  as 
usual  to  his  room.  They  heard  him  walking  about 
there  a  little,  but  so  he  did  often.  Through  what 
solemn  agony  he  passed  in  those  hours  is  only  to  be 
surmised.  He  opened  his  little  trunk  and  took  from 
it  manuscript  after  manuscript  and  tore  each  into 
minute  fragments,  the  fruits  of  his  labor,  the  dear 
children  of  his  thoughts  that  he  had  reared  in  his 
loneliness  and  pain,  the  hurt  father  turning  upon  and 
rending  all.  And  that  done,  he  mixed  his  arsenic 
with  water  and  drank  it,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
his  little  bed,  he  died. 

In  the  morning  they  broke  open  his  door  and  found 
him  there,  dead  in  the  ruins  of  so  much  hope.  The 
world  of  London  roared  on  and  never  knew  how 
great  a  soul  it  had  trampled  under  its  careless  heel. 
Of  him  lying  dead  in  his  attic  chamber  a  scant  half- 
dozen  strangers  took  heed.  The  coroner  came  and 
held  a  perfunctory  inquest,  making  no  notes  and  in 
haste  to  be  gone;  Mrs.  Angell,  her  husband,  and  a 
neighbor  testified,  the  verdict  of  suicide  was  reached, 
the  permit  issued,  the  coroner  went  about  his  busi- 
ness. The  men  from  the  parish  workhouse  came 
with  a  rude  coffin  and  bore  off  the  poor  little  body, 


The  House  where  Chatterton  Died,  No.  39  Brooke  Street,  London. 

(From  an  old  print  in  the  possession  of  Hie  Bristol  Museum.) 


NOW  CRACKS  A  NOBLE  HEART  223 

and  that  night  it  went  to  the  potter's  field  of  the  Shoe 
Lane  workhouse.  Nobody  took  note  of  the  event; 
the  newspapers  printed  no  word  of  it,  Wilkes  on  the 
Continent,  Fell  and  Edmunds  in  prison,  heard  nothing 
about  it;  and  on  the  registry  of  St.  Andrews,  Holborn,1 
in  which  parish  lay  Brooke  Street  and  Shoe  Lane, 
the  rare  melodist  thus  made  mute  was  entered  as 
"William  Chatterton." 

Yet  at  that  moment  Dr.  Fry,  of  Oxford,  the  one 
man  in  all  England  that  had  perceived  the  surpassing 
wonder  of  the  Rowley  poems,  whether  true  or  false, 
was  preparing  a  journey  to  Bristol  to  find  this  mar- 
velous young  man  and  assist  him  if  he  should 
need  help.  And  yet  at  that  moment  the  miserly 
Hamilton  owed  him  several  pounds  for  work  he  had 
accepted  and  that  he  continued  to  publish  for  more 
than  a  year. 

But  perhaps  his  last  resting  place  may  not  have 
been  in  the  lost  promiscuity  of  the  potter's  field;  the 

1  Remarkable  coincidences  attend  this  strange  story.  The  rector  of  St.  Andrews, 
Holborn,  in  which  parish  Brooke  Street  is  situated,  was  Chatterton's  old  acquaint- 
ance and  adversary  at  Bristol,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Broughton,  and  it  was  in  the 
registry  of  his  church  that  the  erroneous  name  was  entered  in  noting  the  burial. 
Broughton  was  at  St.  Andrews  all  the  time  that  Chatterton  lived  in  Brooke  Street, 
but  though  Chatterton  knew  this  very  well  he  made  no  effort  to  see  the  former 
Bristolian. 

While  he  was  still  in  Lambert's  office  Chatterton  seems  to  have  become  deeply 
impressed  with  the  story  of  Richard  Savage,  the  unfortunate  poet.  In  several  of 
the  acknowledged  poems  are  sympathetic  references  to  Savage,  whose  joyless  life 
and  melancholy  fate  resembled  his  own.  Now  Savage  was  born  in  Brooke  Street 
where  Chatterton  died,  and  died  in  Bristol  where  Chatterton  was  born. 


224  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

veil  of  that  restless  spirit  may  have  come  home  to  the 
shadow  of  the  church  he  loved,  and  the  churchyard 
where  as  a  little  boy  he  used  to  run  about  holding  the 
sexton's  fingers.  Some  reasons  exist  to  believe  that 
his  mother,  most  desirous  that  her  son  might  be 
buried  in  consecrated  ground,  sent  word  to  a  rela- 
tive of  hers  in  London,  a  carpenter,  who  reclaimed 
the  body  and  sent  it  in  a  box  to  Bristol.  Over  it,  in 
the  upper  part  of  her  house,  the  mother  held  a  secret 
vigil,  showing  it  to  but  one  friend,  and  at  night 
Phillips,  the  sexton,  now  an  old  man  and  near  his 
own  death,  took  the  little  form  and  buried  it  by 
stealth  in  the  yard  of  St.  Mary's.  The  very  spot  is 
pointed  out:  it  is  "to  the  south  of  the  church  on  the 
right  hand  side  of  the  lime-tree  in  the  middle  paved 
walk  in  Redcliffe  church-yard,"  where  his  father 
and  mother  and  sister  lie.  In  the  morning  the 
shadow  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  falls  upon  it  and  at 
noon  the  clear  sunlight.  A  strange  hush  seems 
always  to  dwell  in  that  churchyard,  deep  and  unend- 
ing peace  is  there  in  the  heart  of  the  great  city;  the 
thick  trees  shut  out  the  world,  all  day  falls  scarcely  a 
footstep,  and  sitting  there  I  have  heard  the  strains 
of  the  organ  playing  Mendelssohn's  "Consolation" 
as  if  from  a  great  way  off. 


VII 

THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT 

So  the  wonderful  voice  passed  to  silence,  but  the 
songs  it  had  sung  had  only  begun  to  live.  At  first 
the  boy's  death  made  no  ripple  on  the  current  of 
passing  events.  If  Barrett  and  Catcott,  who  had 
so  much  profited  by  their  young  friend,  were  grieved 
by  his  loss,  they  made  no  record  of  their  feelings. 
The  first  tribute  of  which  we  have  record  is  an  elegy 
that  Chatterton's  friend,  Thomas  Gary,  published  in 
the  Town  and  Country  Magazine  for  October  of  that 
year.  It  was  full  of  genuine  feeling;  Chatterton 
must  have  meant  much  to  Gary,  judging  by  his  affec- 
tionate and  unstudied  phrases.  It  was  six  months 
before  there  was  further  reference  to  the  story.  Dr. 
Fry,  of  Oxford,  had  made  his  journey  to  Bristol  and 
collected  some  fragments  of  the  Rowley  poems.  Per- 
haps through  his  agency  they  had  been  brought  to 
the  attention  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  At  a  dinner  of 
the  Royal  Academy,  April  23,  1771,  Goldsmith  an- 
nounced to  the  company,  in  which  were  Dr.  John- 
son and  all  the  distinguished  literary  men  of  London, 
that  at  Bristol  had  been  discovered  a  store  of  ancient 

225 


226  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

poems,  most  wonderful  and  beautiful;  that  he  had 
examined  some  of  them  and  believed  them  to  be 
genuine.  Among  the  diners  was  Horace  Walpole. 
He  pricked  up  his  ears  when  he  heard  this  announce- 
ment and,  of  course,  did  not  fail  to  tell  the  company 
that  he  knew  all  about  the  poems  and  the  person 
that  had  discovered  them,  and  he  related  the  verdict 
of  Gray  and  Mason.  Goldsmith  still  protested  his 
faith  in  Rowley,  and  the  talk  going  on  it  came  out 
presently  from  Goldsmith's  own  lips  that  the  discov- 
erer of  Rowley  had  been  in  London  and  had  killed 
himself  there.  So  much  the  good  Goldsmith  had 
been  at  pains  to  discover. 

This  introduction  to  the  attention  of  the  literary 
world  of  London  naturally  bore  fruit  in  inquiries 
about  the  poems  and  the  boy  that  said  he  had  found 
them.  Interested  persons  began  to  visit  and  write 
to  Bristol,  asking  about  these  matters.  The  Rowley 
manuscripts  began  to  be  sought  for.  Most  of  them 
were  in  the  hands  of  Catcott,  and  this  person  finally 
conceiving  that  there  might  be  commercial  value  in 
productions  that  he  had  regarded  as  mere  curiosities, 
executed  a  stroke  of  business  for  himself  by  purchas- 
ing from  Mrs.  Chatterton  such  of  the  boy's  manu- 
scripts as  she  possessed.  As  he  gave  her  five  guineas 
for  these  papers  and  subsequently  sold  them  to  a  Lon- 
don publisher  for  fifty  pounds  the  profit  would  seem 
to  have  been  fair.  The  inquiries  steadily  increased; 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  227 

requests  for  permission  to  copy  the  manuscripts  in 
the  hands  of  Barrett  and  Catcott  were  frequently 
made.  In  three  years  after  Chatterton's  death  the 
Earl  of  Lichfield  possessed  a  fairly  good  collection 
of  these  copies,  and  literary  men  frequently  debated 
of  their  genuineness.  In  1776  Johnson  and  Boswell 
joined  the  pilgrims  to  Bristol,  and  Johnson  made 
some  investigation  of  the  evidences  for  Rowley, 
which  Catcott  and  Barrett,  and  indeed  all  Bristol, 
implicitly  believed  in.  Johnson  quickly  saw  that 
Catcott  was  a  foolish  person  and  that  the  poems  were 
of  modern  manufacture;  but  in  the  end,  although 
the  acknowledgment  overturned  his  favorite  theory 
that  no  untrained  mind  can  notably  achieve,  he 
owned  the  boy's  amazing  genius.  "This  is  the 
most  extraordinary  young  man  that  has  encountered 
my  knowledge,"  he  said;  "it  is  wonderful  how  the 
whelp  has  written  such  things." 

In  1777  the  constantly  growing  interest  in  the 
poems  had  reached  a  point  where  publication  was  de- 
manded, and  a  small  edition  of  Rowley,  made  up  from 
the  Barrett  and  Catcott  manuscripts,  was  printed  in 
London  by  Tyrwhitt.  This  was  reissued  the  next 
year  with  some  additional  matter.  Four  years  later 
appeared  another  and  much  fuller  volume,  and  in 
1794  the  pretentious  Cambridge  edition,  edited  by 
Lancelot  Sharpe.  For  reasons  to  be  dealt  with 
hereafter  the  poems  had  become  the  first  subject 


228  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

of  concern  in  the  learned  world.  And  yet  while 
scholars  were  studying  Chatterton's  works  and  kind- 
hearted  men  and  women  were  grieving  over  his  fate, 
Catcott  and  Barrett  went  their  way  unaffected. 
From  Catcott,  indeed,  not  much  was  to  be  expected 
at  any  time  except  froth  and  folly,  but  what  are  we 
to  make  of  the  strange  silence  of  Barrett  ?  He  knew 
for  how  much  of  his  "History  and  Antiquities"  he 
was  indebted  to  this  boy;  he  knew  that  he  him- 
self had  assisted  in  the  Burgum  pedigree  and  the 
Walpole  correspondence,  both  presently  the  subject 
of  controversy  or  comment;  he  knew  that  he  had  been 
Chatterton's  closest  and  most  intimate  acquaintance; 
he  knew  how  much  he  had  been  confidant  and  coun- 
selor to  that  sorely-tried- spirit.  He  knew,  too,  how 
much  the  pretended  antiques  furnished  by  Chatterton 
had  differed  from  the  genuine  documents  supplied 
by  Morgan,  and  knew  how  in  the  boy's  last  extremity 
he  had  withheld  the  helping  hand  that  would  have 
saved  that  extraordinary  life.  But  whatever  secrets 
that  frigid  bosom  held  went  with  him  to  the  grave. 
He  made  no  sign  about  them.  He  was  living  in 
Bristol  when  Chatterton's  mother  and  sister  were 
in  the  utmost  distress  and  poverty;  he  never  mani- 
fested the  slightest  interest  in  them.  His  little  round 
of  life  lay  in  his  book;  his  only  concern  was  to  secure 
for  himself  unclouded  the  glory  of  that  marvelous 
achievement,  and  he  was  obviously  annoyed  that 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  229 

people  should  think  about  Chatterton  when  they 
might  be  thinking  about  Barrett.  In  a  last  chapter, 
devoted  to  biographical  notices  of  eminent  sons  of 
Bristol,  he  had  much  to  say  of  Rowley,  but  of 
Chatterton,  only  a  cold  and  incidental  line  about  "T. 
Chatterton,  the  producer  of  Rowley  and  his  poems 
to  the  world,"  and  a  harsh  comment  about  his 
"horrible  end"  and  "libertine  principles."1 

But  elsewhere,  when  it  was  too  late,  an  effort  was 
made  to  balance  the  world's  account  with  this  great 
spirit.  Two  kind-hearted  men,  of  Bristol  birth, 
Robert  Southey,  the  poet,  and  Joseph  Cottle,  were 
especially  moved  by  the  story  and  cast  about  to  be 
of  some  service  to  the  family.  Mrs.  Chatterton  had 
died  in  1791.  Mary  had  been  married  and  widowed, 
and  with  her  children  was  living  in  dire  poverty, 
visited  and  somewhat  relieved  by  Hannah  More, 
who  was  also  of  Bristol,  and  from  the  natural  good- 
ness of  her  heart  benevolently  interested  in  the 
Chattertons.  Southey  and  Cottle  were  not  rich, 
but  they  did  what  they  could;  they  edited  and  pub- 
lished in  1803  the  best  edition  of  Chatterton's  works 
that  had  so  far  appeared,  and  they  gave  the  entire 
proceeds  to  Mary.  She  died  in  1804,  leaving  a 
daughter,  who  was  supported  by  the  income  money 

1It  should  not  be  inferred  that  this  phrase  coming  from  such  a  source  has 
any  bearing  on  the  question  of  Chatterton's  character.  In  those  days  all 
persons  that  doubted  the  divine  right  of  kings  or  questioned  the  inerrancy 
of  the  scriptures  were  likely  to  be  subjected  to  such  comment. 


230  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

from  the  Southey  and  Cottle  edition  until  her  death 
in  1807.  She  was  the  last  of  the  Chattertons. 

A  great  and  invaluable  part  of  our  knowledge  of 
the  records  of  Thomas  Chatterton's  life  we  owe  to 
an  incident  in  no  way  connected  with  it,  and  to  the 
intrusion  of  one  of  the  most  singular  figures  in  Eng- 
lish literature.  On  the  night  of  April  7,  1779,  one 
Hackman,  a  clergyman  whose  career  had  also  in- 
cluded service  as  an  officer  in  the  66th  regiment 

o 

of  the  British  Army,  startled  London  by  shooting 
a  popular  actress  named  Miss  Ray  as  she  was 
leaving  Covent  Garden  Theater.  He  had  long 
been  madly  in  love  with  her  and  had  made  violent 
proposals  of  marriage.  It  appears  that  when  she 
refused  him  he  determined  to  kill  himself  in  her 
presence,  but  unluckily  changed  his  intention  and 
shot  her  instead.  The  event  was  a  nine  days'  sen- 
sation in  London  and  suggested  to  the  Rev.  Sir 
Herbert  Croft  the  writing  of  a  very  strange  book 
called  "Love  and  Madness,"  which  consisted  of 
pretended  letters  of  Hackman  to  Miss  Ray  and  her 
replies.  This  pseudo-correspondence  dealt  with  love, 
lovers,  and  suicide,  with  Goethe  and  the  "Sorrows 
of  Werther,"  and  finally  at  some  length  with  the 
story  of  Chatterton.  The  inclusion  was  both  repul- 
sive and  grotesque,  for  Chatterton  was  never  in 
love  and  assuredly  he  was  not  insane,  but  we  need 
not  quarrel  with  the  motives  that  produced  results 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  231 

of  so  much  importance.  To  prepare  himself  to 
deal  with  the  Chatterton  story  Croft  made  laborious, 
painstaking  investigations.  He  went  out  to  Shore- 
ditch  and  interviewed  Mrs.  Ballance  and  the  honest 
plasterer  and  his  family.  He  talked  with  the  young 
man  that  had  been  Chatterton's  roommate.  He  ex- 
amined them  in  detail,  like  a  prosecuting  attorney. 
He  went  to  Brooke  Street  and  tried  to  find  Mrs. 
Angell.  He  hunted  up  the  coroner  that  had  held 
the  inquest.  He  discovered  and  preserved  some  of 
Chatterton's  best  letters.  He  went  to  Bristol  and 
saw  Mrs.  Chatterton  and  others.  He  had  a  mind 
insatiable  of  details  and  a  faculty  for  persistent 
inquiry  that  in  our  day  would  have  made  him  a 
priceless  reporter  for  a  newspaper.  He  went  over 
all  the  ground,  asking  innumerable  questions  and 
making  voluminous  notes,  and  as  most  of  the  per- 
sons that  had  known  Chatterton  were  still  living, 
"Love  and  Madness"  became  the  great  storehouse 
of  information  about  the  last  days  of  the  unfortunate 
boy.  He  had,  to  tell  the  truth,  no  great  sympathy 
with  the  case,  nor  with  Chatterton's  art,  but  his 
unsympathetic  attitude  made  his  investigations  all  the 
better  for  us.  From  all  the  persons  he  interviewed, 
from  the  dwellers  in  Shoreditch  and  in  Brooke  Street, 
from  Cross  the  apothecary,  and  the  rest,  the  testi- 
mony he  obtained  was  uniformly  of  the  boy's  blame- 
less life,  prodigious  industry,  and  goodness  of  heart. 


232  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Not  a  word  indicated  loose  conduct,  not  a  suggestion 
reflected  on  his  character.  And  of  his  endowment, 
Croft,  his  inquiries  finished,  declared  that  "no  such 
human  being,  at  any  period  of  life,  has  ever  been 
known  or  possibly  ever  will  be  known."  This 
unequivocal  testimony  by  one  that  knew  more  about 
Chatterton's  real  life  than  any  other  writer  has  known, 
has  been  overlooked  by  all  but  one  of  Chatterton's 
biographers.  It  could  hardly  be  more  explicit  or 
convincing.  Whoever  will  take  the  trouble  now  to 
examine  the  products  of  this  unaccountable  mind, 
the  incomprehensible  record  of  his  labors,  the 
achievements  in  so  many  directions,  the  versatility 
and  power,  will  agree  with  me  that  Croft's  verdict 
was  not  extravagant.  All  in  all  this  was  certainly 
the  most  wonderful  intellect  that  the  English-speak- 
ing race  has  ever  produced  with  the  one  exception  of 
Shakespeare,  and  the  boy  that  possessed  it  was 
driven  by  starvation  to  kill  himself  before  he  was 
eighteen  years  old. 

Several  biographical  sketches  of  Chatterton  had 
appeared  in  connection  with  editions  of  his  works  or 
independently,  but  the  first  extensive  and  formal 
life  was  published  in  1837  by  John  Dix.  Unluckily 
it  mixed  imaginary  details  with  the  attested  gather- 
ings of  Croft  and  others  until  few  puzzles  are  more 
trying  than  to  tell  where  Dix's  facts  left  off  and  his 
fancies  began.  He  managed  to  increase  the  biog- 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  233 

rapher's  difficulties  in  other  ways,  for  not  only  have 
his  imaginings  been  incorporated  with  the  texture 
of  the  narrative,  but  they  have  had  ingenious  em- 
broidery from  other  hands.  But  there  is  scarcely 
a  story  in  English  history  that  has  been  more  be- 
fuddled. Dix  raised  the  question  of  Chatterton's 
burial  place  by  printing  (for  the  first  time)  in  an 
appendix  the  statement  of  George  Cumberland  (to 
which  I  am  coming  shortly),  concerning  his  investi- 
gations in  Bristol  in  1808.  No  effort  was  made 
by  Dix  to  corroborate  this  statement,  although  he 
spent  some  time  in  Bristol  where  there  was  at  least 
one  person  that  might  have  made  a  good  witness. 
Nothing  could  now  be  of  keener  concern  to  those 

o 

that  feel  an  interest  in  this  friendless  boy  than  to 
know  the  truth  about  this  matter,  but  the  time  has 
long  gone  by  when  the  truth  could  be  ascertained. 
The  story  of  the  midnight  burial  is  thoroughly  dis- 
believed in  Bristol,  and  has  been  discredited  by  most 
writers  about  Chatterton,  although  the  incredulity  of 
the  writers  is  of  no  moment  since  the  bulk  of  such 
writing  has  been  done  to  suit  prejudice  or  precon- 
ceived theory  and  without  much  regard  to  the  testi- 
mony. Between  inherent  improbability  and  direct 
statement  the  balance  seems  even.  There  was  one 
person  in  Bristol,  aside  from  the  Chattertons,  that 
would  be  likely  to  know  of  the  burial,  if  there  had  been 
such  a  thing.  That  Mrs.  Edkins,  their  lifelong  and 


234  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

devoted  friend,  Chatterton's  companion  in  his  trips 
among  the  beggars,  Mrs.  Chatterton's  close  associ- 
ate, would  know  if  anybody  knew.  Accordingly, 
in  1853,  the  handful  of  students  that  followed  the 
Chatterton  story  was  startled  by  a  statement  from 
Mr.  Joseph  Cottle,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  was  one 
of  Chatterton's  editors,  declaring  that  Mrs.  Edkins 
had  verified  the  whole  story.  Curiously  enough  the 
verification  had  not  been  given  to  him  but  to  the 
same  George  Cumberland  that  Dix  had  quoted,  and 
Cumberland  had  transmitted  it  to  Cottle.  Accord- 
ing to  Cottle  Mrs.  Edkins  had  said :  "  Mrs.  Chatterton 
was  passionately  fond  of  her  darling  and  only  son, 
Thomas;  and,  when  she  heard  he  had  destroyed 
himself,  she  immediately  wrote  to  a  relation  of  hers, 
a  carpenter,  urging  him  to  send  home  his  body  in  a 
coffin  or  box.  The  box  was  accordingly  sent  down 
to  Bristol;  and  when  I  called  on  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Chatterton,  to  condole  with  her,  she,  as  a  very  great 
secret,  took  me  up-stairs  and  showed  me  the  box; 
and  removing  the  lid  I  saw  the  poor  boy  whilst  his 
mother  sobbed  in  silence.  She  told  me  that  she 
should  have  him  taken  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  bury  him  in  Redcliffe  churchyard.  Afterwards 
when  I  saw  her  she  said  she  had  managed  it  very 
well,  so  that  none  but  the  sexton  and  his  assistant 
knew  anything  about  it.  This  secrecy  was  necessary, 
as  he  could  not  be  buried  in  consecrated  ground." 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  235 

This  seemed  conclusive  enough  on  the  face  of  it, 
but  its  credibility  weakened  on  examination.  The 
statement  from  Cumberland  that  Dix  printed  in  his 
appendix  gave  a  very  different  version  of  his  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Edkins,  and  one  that  contained 
no  reference  to  the  box  or  the  burial.  But  a  Mrs. 
Stockwell,  who  had  likewise  been  an  intimate  friend 
of  Mrs.  Chatterton's  and  one  of  her  pupils,  certainly 
told  Cumberland  that  the  boy  was  buried  in  Red- 
cliffe  and  indicated  the  spot.  She  said  Mrs.  Chatter- 
ton  had  assured  her  in  confidence  of  this  and  told 
her  all  about  the  arrival  of  the  body  and  the  burial 
by  Phillips.  She  gave  a  circumstantial  account,  also, 
of  a  permission  that  Mrs.  Chatterton  had  given  to 
one  Hutchinson  to  bury  his  child  over  her  son's  grave, 
and  how  much  Mrs.  Chatterton  had  subsequently 
regretted  this.  Some  minor  points  in  this  narrative 
were  subsequently  corroborated,  but  the  main  fact 
remained  undetermined.  Mrs.  Chatterton,  her 
daughter,  and  the  sexton  had  died  before  any  one 
thought  it  worth  while  to  investigate  the  matter; 
if  the  sexton  performed  the  burial  he  never  mentioned 
it  to  his  family;  and  all  chance  of  direct  confirmation 
was  lost.  The  question  takes  on  a  phase  of  still 
more  painful  interest  because  fifty  years  after 
Chatterton's  death  Shoe  Lane  workhouse  was  torn 
down  to  make  room  for  Farringdon  market  and,  with 
callous  indifference,  the  bodies  in  the  potter's  field 


236  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

near  by  were  dug  up  and  carted  away,  no  one  knows 
whither.  It  is  hard  to  think  of  the  body  of  Thomas 
Chatterton  thrown  upon  a  rubbish  heap.  After 
spending  much  time  in  Bristol  and  weighing  the 
scraps  of  evidence,  guesses,  and  surmises  obtainable 
from  many  sources,  it  seems  to  me  clear  that  Mr. 
Cottle,  who  was  very  old  when  he  wrote  his  state- 
ment, confused  Mrs.  Edkins  with  Mrs.  Stockwell, 
and  on  Mrs.  Stockwell's  testimony,  with  the  slight 
collateral  facts  Cumberland  was  able  to  obtain,  rests 
all  the  story  of  the  burial  in  Redcliffe  churchyard. 
Edward  Bell,  who  has  written  of  Chatterton  more 
intelligently  than  any  other  man  except  Professor 
Wilson,  of  Toronto,  gives  credence  to  the  story  and 
unfeignedly  I  wish  that  I  could. 

But  in  the  meantime  Rowley  and  Chatterton  had 
shaken  the  literary  world.  The  third  edition  of  the 
poems  had  been  printed  in  1782,  and  on  its  issuing 
began  the  most  extraordinary  controversy  in  English 
literature,  the  most  extraordinary,  the  least  reason- 
able, and  on  the  whole,  the  most  humiliating.  The 
last  shot  in  that  warfare  was  fired  in  1857,  and  be- 
tween the  dates  there  had  been  more  sound  and 
fury  over  what  signified  nothing  than  can  be  paralleled 
in  modern  history. 

The  inspiration  and  pilot  of  the  edition  of  1782 
was  an  unfortunate  gentleman  named  Jeremiah 
Milles,  who  happened,  by  some  grotesque  freak  of 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  237 

fate,  to  be  president  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries. 
He  was  also  D.D.  and  Dean  of  Exeter.  He  illumined 
his  editing  with  a  long  "Commentary"  full  of  pre- 
tentious ignorance,  in  which,  in  his  own  phrase,  he 
"considered  and  defended"  the  antiquity  of  the 
poems.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  average 
high  school  boy  of  Kansas  or  Oklahoma  would  blush 
to  display  the  Dean's  crass  ignorance  about  the 
English  language  and  its  literature.  Sad,  indeed, 
was  the  spectacle  afforded;  the  whole  futility  of 
English  scholarship  and  the  English  University 
seemed  to  be  laid  bare.  This  D.D.  and  President 
of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries  knew  nothing  of  the 
history  of  the  English  stage  and  drama,  nothing  of 
the  development  of  his  language,  nothing  of  medieval 
life  and  customs.  He  did  not  know  that  discovery  of 
such  a  drama  as  "Aella"  purporting  to  be  of  the 
fifteenth  century  would  be  like  discovery  of  a  repeat- 
ing rifle  among  the  weapons  of  the  Stone  age.  He 
knew  nothing  about  the  history  of  English  poetry;  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  the  Rowley  poems  were 
written  in  a  highly  developed  melodic  strain  and  that 
melody  had  existed  in  English  verse  hardly  two  cen- 
turies. He  knew  nothing  about  Chaucer,  nothing 
about  Lydgate,  nothing  about  the  intellectual  state  of 
the  Saxons,  nothing  about  their  history  or  manners, 
and  of  Rowley,  Turgot,  Abbot  John,  Bishop  This 
and  Bishop  That,  the  long  list  of  impossible  Saxon 


238  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

painters  and  all  the  rest  he  made  one  meal  and  was 
ready  to  swallow  more.  To  his  mind  the  Rowley 
poems  were  indubitable,  and  to  crown  his  absurdities 
with  a  perfect  climax  he  founded  much  of  his  argu- 
ment upon  internal  evidence. 

On  the  appearance  of  this  wondrous  document  the 
lists  were  set  and  the  coursing  began.  Malone  and 
Tyrwhitt,  the  ablest  scholars  of  their  times,  came 
out  with  powerful  essays  riddling  Milles's  arguments 
and  showing  a  small  part  of  the  evidence  of  modern 
origin  that  in  this  day  is  obvious  to  practically  every 
reader.  In  that  day  it  had  to  be  dragged  out  and 
laid  in  courses  like  stones  for  a  house.  Warton,  of 
Oxford,  author  of  a  history  of  English  poetry  and  an 
authority  enormously  overrated  in  his  day,  fought  on 
the  same  side.  This  seemed  a  powerful  phalanx;  it 
was  assaulted  with  a  ponderous  tome  written  by  one 
Jacob  Bryant  and  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  "  Bryant's 
Observations,"  in  which  all  that  Milles  had  said  was 
enforced  and  with  painstaking  imbecility  endless 
chapters  of  new  argument  were  added.  The  maga- 
zines rang  with  this  clishmaclaver;  Rowleyans  and 
Anti-Rowleyans  ran  tilts  in  every  periodical.  Dr. 
Fry,  President  of  St.  Johns,  Oxford;  Henry  Dampier, 
Dean  of  Durham;  Rayner  Hickford,  of  Waxted;  Lord 
Lyttleton  and  others,  championed  Rowley  and  sup- 
ported Bryant  and  Milles.  The  number  of  learned 
men  willing  to  exhibit  themselves  as  knowing  nothing 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  239 

of  their  own  tongue  or  country  steadily  increased, 
no  doubt  for  the  refreshing  by  innocent  merriment 
of  future  generations,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to 
get  the  simplest  facts  of  philological  research  estab- 
lished so  that  these  unfortunate  persons  would 
recognize  them.  A  new  generation  had  come  and 
gone  before  it  began  widely  to  be  admitted  that  the 
Rowley  poems  had  no  other  origin  than  in  the  fer- 
tile mind  of  Thomas  Chatterton.  Even  so  late  as 
1857,  as  I  have  said,  a  gentleman  writing  in  "Notes 
and  Queries  "was  still  unconvinced  and  probably  died 
unshaken  in  the  Rowley  faith,  and  in  1865  a  writer 
in  a  London  magazine  argued  that  part,  at  least,  of 
the  Rowley  romance  was  true. 

The  controversy  may  have  been  wholesome  for 
English  scholarship,  inasmuch  as  it  showed  in  a 
powerful  manner  how  much  less  educated  English- 
men knew  of  their  own  language  than  they  knew  of 
Latin  and  Greek;  but  it  was  ill  for  the  fame  of 
Thomas  Chatterton.  A  short  cut  to  prove  that 
Rowley  did  write  the  poems  was  to  show  that 
Chatterton  could  not  have  written  them;  and  for 
all  that  regard  human  nature  as  an  alluring  study 
it  should  be  instructive  to  note  that  the  favorite 
way  to  this  proof  was  by  asserting  Chatterton  to 
have  been  of  dissolute  habits  and  ordinary  endow- 
ments. To  this  cheerful  pursuit  was  much  aid  in 
the  inevitable  tendency  of  the  British  mind  to  moral- 


240  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

ize  for  the  benefit  of  the  Young  Person.  Chatterton 
was  a  boy,  he  held  rationalistic  beliefs,  he  told  fibs, 
he  came  to  a  bad  end.  Naturally,  then,  all  must  be 
of  one  pattern;  to  admit  that  anything  he  did  was 
good  was  to  endanger  the  morals  of  the  Rising 
Generation.  Extraordinary  are  the  chances  of  Geog- 
raphy. If  Chatterton  had  been  born  240  miles 
S.  E.  by  E.  of  Bristol,  no  one  would  have  thought 
it  essential  that  he  be  pilloried  for  the  public  good. 
In  England  it  has  been  different,  and  to  this  day 
English  writers,  including  many  that  have  not  read 
and  some  that  could  not  understand  his  works,  have 
not  ceased  to  execrate  him.  Every  line  of  his  writ- 
ings, every  chance  expression  in  his  letters,  every 
unfavorable  recollection  of  those  that  had  not  liked 
or  had  envied  him,  has  been  exhumed  and  twisted 
into  a  derogatory  significance.  Following  the  licen- 
tious manner  of  the  times,  he  gave  pen  to  much  idle 
and  some  objectionable  matter,  and  all  this  has  been 
cited  as  proof  that  he  was  a  libertine  and  depraved 
person.  The  obvious  fact  that  the  enormous  quan- 
tity of  the  work  he  turned  out  made  it  impossible 
that  he  should  have  time  for  dissipation  has  been 
conveniently  neglected,  with  the  testimony  of  his 
London  relatives  as  to  the  unvarying  regularity  of 
his  habits,  and  his  own  statement  of  his  innate 
abhorrence  of  the  ways  of  vice.  His  innocent  ad- 
dresses to  various  young  women  of  Bristol  have  been 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  241 

tortured  into  meaning  that  he  was  a  sad  rake,  his 
admiration  for  Wilkes  and  his  bold  attacks  upon 
monarchy  have  been  used  to  show  his  revolutionary 
and  dangerous  character,  and  over  all  have  been 
spread  the  lurid  colors  of  that  word  "forgery." 
The  mere  sound  of  it  is  enough.  Forgery!  Here 
was  a  "forger"  and  all  the  prejudices  of  a  com- 
mercial age  and  race  have  pursued  him  up  and 
down  until  the  truth  has  been  obscured  to  the  gen- 
eral mind  that  this  was  a  most  wonderful  intellect, 
that  here  were  gifts  as  far  beyond  our  understand- 
ing as  Shakespeare's,  that  he  was  only  a  boy,  and 
that  the  gross  world  trod  out  his  light  before  it  had 
more  than  flamed  up  once. 

For  some  of  this  there  is  possible  excuse  in  the 
heat  and  fury  of  controversy;  but  for  the  most  of  it, 
none.  It  is  commonly  assumed,  among  those  that 
have  never  taken  the  trouble  to  investigate  the  story, 
that  Chatterton  put  his  fabrications  upon  the  world, 
as  Macpherson  put  his,  for  hire  and  salary;  and  the 
gratuitous  assumption  has  done  this  unfortunate  boy 
additional  wrong.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  very  few 
of  the  Rowley  papers  saw  the  light  during  their 
author's  lifetime,  and  from  all  of  his  writings  in 
imitation  of  the  antique,  of  whatsoever  kind,  he  can 
hardly  have  had  so  much  as  three  pounds.  The 
essence  of  forgery  is  an  intent  to  defraud.  Acres  of 
paper  covered  with  imitated  handwritings  would 


242  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

not  constitute  forgery  unless  they  were  used  to 
gain  something  of  value.  When  Chatterton  died 
the  mass  of  the  Rowley  poems  were  manuscripts 
in  the  hands  of  Barrett  and  Catcott.  It  was  the 
publication  of  "Elinoure  and  Juga"  and  one  or 
two  others,  and  the  incessant  babbling  of  Catcott,  that 
finally  brought  Rowley  to  the  attention  of  antiquari- 
ans and  thus  to  the  notice  of  Dr.  Fry,  who  was  the 
first  person  to  take  any  real  interest  in  the  matter. 
What,  then,  is  more  unjust  than  to  class  Thomas 
Chatterton  with  sordid  impostors  like  Macpherson 
and  Ireland  ?  It  was  with  no  purpose  of  gain  that 
he  gave  life  to  his  dreams.  But  being  born  an  artist, 
and  his  soul  being  wrapped  in  a  certain  subject,  it 
was  beyond  his  control  that  he  should  give  expres- 
sion to  the  things  whereon  he  brooded  and  in  the 
shape  that  answered  to  his  visions.  And  this  point 
has  been  consistently  overlooked,  that  the  Rowley 
romance  was  a  thing  apart  -from  anything  he  did  for 
money,  that  it  represented  only  the  artistic  side  of  his 
nature,  that  in  all  human  probability  he  could  no 
more  avoid  the  form  of  expression  his  work  took 
than  a  painter  can  avoid  putting  into  his  painting 
the  characteristics  of  his  individual  style.  But  mon- 
strous injustice  has  been,  from  the  time  of  his  birth, 
the  lot  of  this  boy.  No  part  of  the  strange  story 
seems  stranger  than  this,  that  dead  now  one  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  years,  the  world  still  looks  askance 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  243 

at  him,  and  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  name 
applied  to  his  work  by  the  one  man  in  England  hav- 
ing the  least  right  to  condemn  any  one  that  did 
that  particular  thing.  "  If  literary  forgery  were  the 
capital  offense,"  says  Professor  Wilson,  "the  same 
gallows  should  have  sufficed  for  Walpole  and  Chat- 
terton." 

A  few  sympathetic  souls  bore  heavily  upon  the 
Earl  of  Orford  when  the  facts  were  revealed  about 
the  wonderful  genius  that  had  been  sacrificed  to 
indifference  and  neglect.  Bitter  comments  were 
made  in  many  places,  and  at  last  the  noble  earl  took 
up  his  own  defense.  He  had  the  bad  taste  to  print 
a  letter  in  which  he  thought  to  better  his  position  by 
assailing  the  memory  of  the  dead.  He  sneered  at 
Chatterton's  work,  distorted  what  had  happened 
between  them,  and  set  afloat  or  gave  prominence 
to  all  the  reports  that  were  derogatory  to  his  char- 
acter. On  other  occasions  he  lied  most  outrageously 
about  the  affair.  He  denied  having  received  the 
letters  that  he  had  answered,  he  accused  Chatterton 
of  betraying  the  cause  in  which  he  was  enlisted,  and 
his  word  as  a  nobleman  bore  such  weight  that  men 
that  should  have  known  better  were  swayed  out  of 
a  normal  judgment.  He  had  pretended  that  he 
was  quite  indifferent  to  Chatterton's  cutting  satires 
against  him;  he  demonstrated  that  not  only  was  he 
hurt  by  what  the  boy  had  written,  but  that  he  was 


244  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

capable  of  the  ignoble  revenge  of  maligning  one  no 
longer  able  to  defend  himself. 

The  truth  is  that  Walpole  is  the  sole  authority  for 
the  idea  that  Chatterton  was  dissolute.  You  will 
find  it  advanced  without  proof,  without  reason,  by 
his  every  biographer,  but  there  is  extant  not  one 
particle  of  evidence  to  support  it  and  through  all  its 
reappearances  it  can  be  traced  back,  link  by  link,  in 
an  unfailing  chain  until  we  come  to  Walpole's  letter  of 
defense,  and  there  we  can  put  finger  upon  the  source 
of  all  the  slanders.  Walpole  asserts  them;  the  first 
man  echoes  Walpole,  the  second  man  parrots  the  first, 
and  so  on  from  tome  to  tome  the  falsehood  flies  and 
gathers  bulk.  Walpole  never  saw  Chatterton,  had 
no  knowledge  of  his  ways  or  life  or  habits,  never 
knew  anybody  that  knew  him,  had  no  way  to  learn 
of  these  matters,  and  founded  his  adroitly  worded 
accusation  on  a  chance  expression  of  Chatterton's 
in  a  letter  to  his  sister:  "I  am  this  moment  pierced 
through  the  heart  by  the  black  eye  of  a  young  lady," 
and  the  like  innocent  jocoserie.  Upon  this  and  upon 
nothing  else.  I  have  patiently  searched  out  every 
line  that  has  been  written  on  this  subject  and  have 
assured  myself  that  Walpole's  animadversions,  as 
taken  up  and  enlarged  upon  by  those  that  desired 
for  their  own  purposes  to  belittle  Chatterton,  were 
the  one  origin  of  all  this  most  singular  prejudice. 

It  was  Walpole  again  that  started  the  "forgery'* 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  245 

idea :  "  all  the  house  of  forgery  are  relations,"  he  says, 
and  proceeds  to  assert  that  Chatterton  having 
succeeded  in  "forging"  old  poems  would  probably 
have  gone  on  to  forge  notes  of  hand.  The  next 
edition  of  this  humane  remark  appears  in  the  Intro- 
duction to  an  early  edition  of  Chatter-ton's  Miscel- 
lanies in  which  the  writer  takes  the  cheerful  view 
that  Chatterton's  early  death  was  no  great  matter 
since  if  he  had  lived  he  would  surely  have  been 
hanged.  Of  course,  this  is  merely  Walpole's  sug- 
gestion clothed  in  other  words.  From  that  day  to 
this  the  notion  has  somehow  clung  to  the  human 
intellect;  Chatterton  was  a  forger;  all  forgers  are 
criminals  and  detestable  creatures;  therefore  do  not 
read  Chatterton's  works. 

Again,  without  exception  the  biographers  have 
taken  as  true  the  assertion  that  Chatterton  wrote 
on  both  sides  of  the  issue  between  king  and  people. 
Even  Professor  Wilson  calls  him  for  this  a  "venal 
young  politician,"  and  yet  when  this  charge  has  been 
traced  back  from  hand  to  hand  we  find  it  to  have 
exactly  the  same  basis  as  the  other,  that  is  to  say 
Walpole's  assertion  and  a  mere  phrase  in  one  of 
Chatterton's  letters  to  his  sister.  "He  is  a  poor 
author,  who  cannot  write  on  both  sides,"  said  the 
boy,  and  on  these  words  have  been  based  page  upon 
page  of  moral  disquisition  and  sage  reproof.  Walpole 
asserted  that  he  had  seen  a  manuscript  signed 


246  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

"Moderator,"  and  written  by  Chatterton,  in  which 
the  king's  attitude  towards  the  people  of  London 
was  defended  and  praised.  He  did  not  say  how  he 
knew  it  was  Chatterton's,  nor  where  he  saw  it,  nor 
when,  nor  who  had  it  at  the  time,  nor  what  became 
of  it  afterward.  No  one  else  has  ever  seen  it,  nor 
heard  of  anybody  that  had  heard  of  anybody  that 
had  seen  it.  Nobody  knows  where  it  is  now.  But 
on  the  strength  of  such  testimony  the  boy's  char- 
acter has  been  assailed.1 

1  Here  I  feel  impelled  to  give  an  illustration  of  the  ease  and  fluency  with 
which  "Chatterton  Incidents"  have  been  supplied. 

"Three  days  before  his  death,  when  walking  with  a  friend  in  St.  Pancras 
churchyard,  reading  the  epitaphs,  he  was  so  deep  in  thought  as  he  walked  on, 
that  not  perceiving  a  grave  which  was  just  dug,  he  fell  into  it:  his  friend, 
observing  his  situation,  came  to  his  assistance,  and  as  he  helped  him  out,  told 
him  in  a  jocular  manner,  he  was  happy  in  beholding  the  resurrection  of 
genius.  Poor  Chatterton  smiled,  and  taking  his  companion  by  the  arm,  re- 
plied, 'My  dear  friend,  I  feel  the  sting  of  a  speedy  dissolution.  I  have  been 
at  war  with  the  grave  for  some  time,  and  find  it  not  so  easy  to  vanquish  as 
I  imagined;  we  can  find  an  asylum  from  every  creditor  but  that.*" 

For  this  engaging  specimen  of  fictional  art  we  are  indebted  to  Dix  (Life 
of  Chatterton,  p.  290).  It  is  pure  invention.  In  the  last  letter  to  his 
mother  Chatterton  wrote  in  a  merry  strain  of  falling  into  a  grave  upon  the 
sexton  at  work  therein  apd  bouncing  out  laughingly.  Upon  this  slight  founda- 
tion and  none  other  Dix  reared  the  airy  structure  of  his  incident,  not  hesitat- 
ing to  supply  the  conversation  or  any  other  accessory.  Three  days  before 
Chatterton's  death  he  was  not  wandering  with  a  friend  in  St.  Pancras 
churchyard,  but  struggling  gaunt-eyed  and  famished  in  his  little  garret. 
But  his  entire  life  has  been  maimed  and  distorted  for  us  by  the  like  imagin- 
ings of  the  early  biographers,  Gregory,  Chalmers,  Dix  and  the  rest,  each 
incorporating  a  previous  fantasy  and  adding  something  of  his  own.  Now, 
why  should  all  these  writers  feel  at  liberty  to  imagine  the  details  of  a  life 
about  which  they  knew  nothing  ? 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  247 

It  had  been  in  the  power  of  Horace  Walpole  to 
give  Chatterton's  works  to  the  world  and  to  save  the 
life  of  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  that  ever  lived  in 
any  age  or  country,  and  his  comment  upon  his  con- 
duct in  that  affair  was  that  "all  the  house  of  forgery 
are  relations."  He  had  himself  been  guilty  of  a 
far  worse  offense  in  that  same  line,  and  yet  the 
accusations  that  he  had  the  effrontery  to  make 
have  outweighed  the  facts  and  done  more  to  pervert 
the  truth  about  Thomas  Chatterton  than  any  other 
cause.  He  was  rich,  powerful,  titled,  one  of  the 
great  men  of  his  day,  and  he  set  his  wits  to  under- 
mine the  character  of  the  charity  school  boy  that  he 
had  repulsed  and  unjustly  treated,  whose  life  he  had 
embittered  and  of  whose  death  he  was  not  morally 
blameless. 

Thus  year  after  year  Thomas  Chatterton  has  been 
brought  by  the  bailiffs  of  British  morals  to  be  judged 
of  his  offense,  tried  by  the  application  of  such  stand- 
ards as  would  befit  one  indicted  for  check-raising  or 
counterfeiting,  and  unanimously  condemned.  For 
generations  it  seemed  as  if  time  would  not  ameliorate 
nor  all  the  extenuating  facts  weigh  against  the  sen- 
tence. To  this  day  as  often  as  he  is  mentioned  he 
is  regularly  branded  as  the  "Literary  Forger."  "It 
is  such  a  dirty  crime,"  says  one  of  Charles  Reade's 
characters,  accused  of  forgery,  and  speaks  a  true 
word.  It  is  like  leprosy.  Neither  the  literary  nor 


248  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  moral  reputation  of  this  boy  has  been  able  to 
stand  against  it.  Shall  there  be  anything  good  in 
a  forger  ? 

But  suppose  we  see  how  this  matter  stands. 
Thomas  Chatterton,  aged  fifteen,  dreamer  of  dreams 
and  assuredly  born  out  of  his  true  time,  clothed  his 
magnificent  poetry  in  an  antique  dress  and  pre- 
tended that  it  had  been  written  three  hundred  years 
before,  and  this  he  did,  not  for  mercenary  purposes, 
not  for  any  profit  he  might  secure,  nor,  very  prob- 
ably, with  any  consciousness  of  deceit,  but  from 
some  vague  instinct  of  the  requirements  of  an  artistic 
setting.  Macpherson,  a  mature  man,  manufactured 
his  spurious  Ossian  stuff  that  he  might  with  it  swindle 
confiding  historical  societies  and  impose  upon  pub- 
lishers. It  is  a  strange  fact  that  in  the  literature  of 
this  subject  the  offense  of  the  man  Macpherson 
appears  trivial  compared  with  the  misdoing  of  the 
lonely  charity  school  boy.  No  one  now  cares  to  cas- 
tigate Macpherson;  no  one  now  issues  books  and 
writes  articles  to  gibbet  him  as  an  awful  warning  to 
the  young.  The  whole  weight  of  abhorrence  for  liter- 
ary forging  is  reserved  for  the  boy;  the  man  goes  free. 

Or  take  other  illustrations.  "Who  wrote 
Otranto  ? "  asks  Chatterton  in  one  of  his  satirical 
poems.  He  might  well  ask.  When  Walpole  issued 
his  novel  the  "Castle  of  Otranto"  he  palmed  it 
upon  an  unsuspecting  world  as  a  translation  of  an 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  249 

old  Italian  manuscript  he  had  found,  and  for  a 
long  time  that  dull  hoax  deceived  everybody. 
Yet  no  one  now  drags  Horace  Walpole  to  be 
judged  at  the  bar  of  public  opinion;  no  one  calls 
the  Earl  of  Orford  "Literary  Forger."  Mere  feign- 
ing about  the  origin  of  a  manuscript  has  never  (in 
other  cases)  been  accounted  a  great  matter.  It  has 
been  done  innumerable  times  without  imping- 
ing upon  the  sensitive  nerves  of  professional 
moralists.  Many  an  honored  or  respectable  writer 
of  fiction  from  Scott  to  Stevenson  has  done  it,  often 
concealing  his  own  name  and  share  in  the  perform- 
ance, and  no  one  has  been  mortally  offended.  This 
boy  alone  has  been  singled  out  for  punishment. 

In  spite  of  all,  the  flame  he  lighted  has  burned  on 
steadily,  year  by  year,  his  fame  and  the  recognition 
of  his  influence  have  grown  among  his  own  gild. 
The  poets  knew  at  once  that  wonderful  voice  and 
gave  heed  to  a  new  and  supernal  message.  Coleridge 
studied  Chatterton  attentively  and  repaid  part  of 
what  he  learned  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems 
in  the  language.  Blake  yearned  over  him;  Shelley  * 
understood  and  loved  a  spirit  so  much  akin  to  his 
own;  Keats  sat  at  his  feet,  dedicated  "Endymion" 
to  his  memory,  and  took  from  his  works  one 
of  the  most  celebrated  and  beautiful  of  his  pic- 

1  Do  but  compare  carefully  the  "Hymn  of  Apollo"  with  the  stanzas  from 
"Aella"  that  are  given  on  p.  145. 


250  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

tures;1  Wordsworth  knew  what  the  voice  meant  and 
paid  it  the  tribute  of  his  tears  and  of  a  deathless 
sonnet;  Robert  Buchanan  sang  again  and  again  in 
his  honor;  Rossetti  brought  wreath  after  wreath  for 
his  unknown  shrine.  Of  all  the  poets  that  have 
sung  in  English  this  is  most  truly  the  poet  for  poets; 
of  all  the  poets  that  have  sung  in  English,  Shake- 
speare alone  excepted,  this  has  had  upon  what  is 
distinctively  the  modern  structure  of  the  art  the  most 
stimulating  influence;  and  of  all  the  poets  that  have 
sung  in  English,  Shakespeare  alone  excepted,  this 
had  the  greatest  gifts  and  surest  inspiration. 

We  shall  see  what  Chatterton  did  for  English 
poetry  if  we  compare  what  it  was  before  him  with 
what  it  became  afterward;  then  the  seeds  of  much 
of  the  splendid  modern  growth  appear  in  his  poems, 
not  elsewhere.  Taking  a  large  view  of  modern 
poetry  as  an  art,  and  tracing  back  its  basic  principles 
—  designed  melody  of  expression,  designed  use  of 
color  and  form,  the  spirit  of  intimate  and  loving 
communion  with  nature,  song  that  aims  to  transfer 
a  feeling,  not  to  express  a  sentiment  nor  to  embody  a 
syllogism  —  the  evolution  of  all  these  things  may 
be  traced  back  from  Swinburne  to  Tennyson,  from 
Tennyson  to  Shelley  and  Keats,  from  Shelley  and 
Keats  to  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  from  poet  to 

Not  only  this,  but  many  a  line   in  "Endymion"  and  the  Odes  was  ob- 
viously inspired  by  lines  in  "Aella  "  and  in  Chatterton 's  songs. 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  251 

poet,  from  generation  to  generation,  back  to  the 
charity  school  boy  of  Bristol,  but  no  farther. 

From  its  long  descent  into  the  desert  places  that 
began  after  Milton,  English  poetry  was  certain  to 
return,  else  it  would  have  perished  of  inanition.  On 
the  starveling  desert  fare  and  laden  with  the  rub- 
bish of  metaphysics  and  "thought,"  it  lost  all  trace 
of  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  its  youth.  From  the 
beginning  of  Dryden  to  the  end  of  Churchill  it  grew 
steadily  worse;  at  its  lowest  ebb  it  was  the  most 
contemptible  lot  of  rhymes  ever  tolerated  without 
the  precincts  of  Bedlam.  The  dreary  inanities  of 
Marvel,  Tickell,  Shenstone,  Akenside  and  Young 
belong  to  the  curiosities  of  literature,  not  to  poetry. 
Pope  turned  the  noble  art  into  mere  joiner's  work, 
very  neat  and  tasteful,  but  still  joinery;  and  John- 
son exhibited  to  the  world  how  the  thing  was  done 
by  laboriously  cutting  up  prose  into  five-foot  lengths 
and  squaring  the  ends,  a  process  that  needed  only 
water-power  or  steam  to  run  itself.  No  one  in  the 
whole  English-speaking  circuit  from  the  Hebrides 
(by  a  stretch)  to  far  Cathay,  thought  of  poetry  as  an 
art.  It  was  merely  a  neat  and  handy  vehicle  for 
one  of  three  purposes: 

Item,  to  express  an  attenuated  sentiment  about  a 
lady's  hand,  looking-glass,  glove  or  what-not  foolery. 

Item,  to  express  to  a  waiting  world  some  foolish 
person's  foolish  belief  about  creeds  and  policies. 


252  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Item,  to  express  Mr.  Dryden's  personal  contempt 
for  Mr.  Shadwell  and  vice  versa. 

In  these  unspeakable  depths  dwelt  the  glorious 
maid  for  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  years,  heaven 
help  all  concerned. 

Very  likely  the  human  mind  went  with  her.  From 
the  restoration  of  the  Stuarts  for  one  hundred  years  the 
world  progressed  little.  Sloth  and  sensuality  gripped 
the  fortunate;  ignoble  content  laid  its  leaden  mace 
on  the  toilers.  Wars  there  were,  but  none  that  made 
for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  one  king  warring  against 
another  for  a  bit  of  land  or  a  wormy  title  or  some- 
thing equally  worthless.  Prose  became  (except  for 
Swift)  pointless  twaddle;  superstition  had  youthful 
science  bound  and  gagged;  the  universities  rumbled 
around  the  circles  of  classicism,  lost  to  the  world  in 
fogs  of  their  own  making;  educated  people  believed 
in  witches  and  ghosts  and  that  the  touch  of  a  fat 
dull  king's  forefinger  was  fatal  to  bacteria.  Nobody 
discovered  anything  except  new  ways  to  make  pork- 
pies.  The  throne  ruled,  the  church  ruled,  the  people 
slept;  and  for  any  man  to  get  outside  the  smooth, 
main  traveled  path  was  lunacy. 

In  the  end  some  one  was  certain  to  revolt.  You 
might  say  in  the  end  some  one  was  certain  to  dis- 
cover America,  but  we  do  not  stop  to  think  of  that 
when  we  honor  Christopher  Columbus,  plunging 
with  three  skiffs  into  the  night  of  unknown  seas. 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  253 

In  English  literature  the  divine  gift  of  revolt  fell 
upon  a  boy  that  killed  himself  when  he  was  seven- 
teen years  and  nine  months  old.  He  was  the  first 
to  break  away  from  the  juiceless  formulas  of  pedantry, 
he  was  the  first  to  recognize  the  art  possibilities  of 
medievalism,  he  was  the  first  to  see  that  the  divine 
art  of  poetry  touches  music  with  one  hand  and  paint- 
ing with  the  other,  and  has  no  mission  but  the  mission 
of  her  sister  arts.  He  was  the  first  person  in  one 
hundred  years  to  see  that  the  music  of  speech  might 
be  varied  in  verse  to  suit  various  emotions,  that  there 
were  limitless  forms  for  limitless  feelings,  that  the 
iambic  pentameter  in  rhymed  couplets  was  not 
necessarily  sacred  because  it  had  been  used  by  a  little 
man  with  a  spiteful  wit,  and  that  poetry  is  not  to  be 
made  with  a  hammer.  It  was  he  that  showed  the  dif- 
ferent time-bars  of  English  poetry  and  what  they  are 
for.  It  was  he,  this  boy,  that  started  the  movement 
culminating  in  our  age  in  the  multitudinous  varieties 
of  form  and  stanza  and  movement  and  beauty  that 
lay  irresistible  charm  upon  us  in  the  poetry  of 
Tennyson  and  Swinburne.  It  is  so,  he  was  the 
pioneer,  this  boy;  there  are  fifty-seven  measures  in 
the  Rowley  poems  alone,  and  with  the  exception  of 
Herrick,  that  is  more  than  you  will  find  in  any  pre- 
ceding English  poet  from  Chaucer  down.1  Here  was 

1  But  in  the  case  of  Herrick  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  stanzaic  variations 
meant  nothing  but  fantasy  and  a  desire  for  novelty.  In  the  case  of  Chatterton  the 
stanzaic  form  is  invariably  molded  to  the  impression  to  be  conveyed. 


254  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

the  spark  that  lighted  the  torch  that  fired  the  train. 
Coleridge  came  and  saw  how  here  the  spray  upsprang 
from  the  bird  taking  its  flight,  the  cowslip  trembled 
with  the  dew,  the  ripe  apples  bent  the  bough  to  the 
ground,  and  in  line  after  line  of  his  greatest  singing 
you  can  see  the  result.  One  after  another  the  poets 
that  founded  the  modern  school  of  art  poetry  came 
to  this  shrine;  dumb  to  the  world,  the  voice  spoke 
clearly  enough  to  them;  they  heard  it  reverently, 
Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats,  this  voice  of  the  charity 
school  boy  that  starved  in  London,  and  thousands 
of  later  singers  repeat  unconsciously  what  it  taught 
these  prophets. 

What  nature  means  to  him  is  the  measure  of  any 
artist.  We  know  what  it  means  to  Swinburne  and 
what  it  meant  to  Tennyson,  Morris,  Rossetti,  Keats, 
Shelley,  Wordsworth,  as  we  see  or  hear  the  signifi- 
cance unfolded  in  those  great  word-pictures  and 
word-symphonies.  We  do  not  stop  to  think  that 
this  intimate  view  of  nature,  this  embracing  sym- 
pathy and  this  purpose  to  paint  her  and  sing  her  just 
as  she  is,  trace,  in  their  modern  forms,  straight  back 
to  Chatterton  and  no  farther.  The  first  definite 
suggestion  that  poetry  is  on  one  side  a  kind  of  paint- 
ing was  his;  the  first  definite  practise  of  poetry 
as  painting  to  the  imagination  was  his.  The  first 
practical  recognition  of  the  truth  that  to  name  an 
object  does  not  necessarily  call  up  a  perfect  vision 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  255 

of  it,  that  it  must  be  specified  and  illuminated  and 
vitalized  to  the  mind's  eye,  that  was  his  also,  and 
above  all  the  firm  underlying  belief  that  the  purpose 
of  poetry  is  to  transfer  a  feeling,  not  to  preach  ser- 
mons nor  to  elaborate  metaphysics. 

In  these  days  we  are  so  accustomed  to  such  ideas 
we  may  not  easily  realize  the  time  when  they  were 
not.  But  to  see  what  was  before  Chatterton's  time 
the  poet's  view  of  nature,  take  a  few  examples  in 
which  his  predecessors  deal  with  natural  aspects. 
Abraham  Cowley,  for  instance: 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene, 

Beneath  a  bower  for  sorrow  made, 

Th'  uncomfortable  shade 

Of  the  black  yew's  unlucky  green, 

Mixt  with  the  mourning  willow's  careful  gray, 

Where  reverend  Cham  cuts  out  his  famous  way, 

The  melancholy  Cowley  lay. 

Or  Andrew  Marvell,  "Thoughts  in  a  Garden": 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 

What  wond'rous  life  is  this  I  lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 


256  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Or  Denham,  describing  the  Thames  in  "Cooper's 
Hill": 

My  eye  descending  from  the  hill  surveys 
Where  Thames  among  the  wanton  valley  strays: 
Thames,  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons 
By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs: 
Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity. 

No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 

The  mower's  hopes  nor  mock  the  ploughman's  toil: 

But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows; 

First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 

Or  Dry  den  lifting  his  voice  to  Mrs.  Anne  Killegrew: 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies, 
Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  bless'd; 
Whose  palms,  new  pluck'd  from  paradise, 
In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise, 
Rich  with  immortal  green,  above  the  rest: 
Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighb'ring  star, 
Thou  roll'st  above  us  in  thy  wandering  race. 

Or  Pope  singing  of  Windsor  Forest: 

Here  hills  and  vales,  the  woodland  and  the  plain, 
Here  earth  and  water  seem  to  strive  again; 
Not  chaos-like  together  crush'd  and  bruis'd, 
But  as  the  world,  harmoniously  confus'd: 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  257 

Where  order  in  variety  we  see, 
And  where,  though  all  things  differ,  all  agree. 
Here  waving  groves  a  chequer'd  scene  display, 
And  part  admit,  and  part  exclude  the  day. 

Or  Thomson,  the  admired  artificer  of  the  "Sea- 
sons "  singing  of  Autumn : 

But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams; 
Till  choked  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower, 
The  forest  walks,  at  every  rising  gale, 
Roll  wide  the  wither'd  waste  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields; 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign. 

Or  Thomson  to  the  Nightingale: 

O  Nightingale,  best  poet  of  the  grove, 

That  plaintive  strain  can  ne'er  belong  to  thee, 

Bless'd  in  the  full  possession  of  thy  love: 
Oh,  lend  that  strain,  sweet  Nightingale,  to  me! 

In  other  words,  nature  was  to  all  these  and  their 
fellows  a  sealed  book.  They  saw  the  cover,  of  the 
contents  they  knew  naught.  All  flowers  looked  alike 
to  them;  the  field  was  but  a  field.  To  see  how 
different  it  is  to  those  that  had  really  communed  with 
her,  we  need  but  compare  Thomson's  "Nightin- 
gale" with  Keats's,  or  Pope's  daubed  blur  of  "Wind- 
sor Forest"  with  any  one  of  one  hundred  pictures 


258  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

in  Rossetti  —  "The  Day  Dream, "to  pick  one  at 
random.  And  to  see  how  the  boy  Chatterton  was  of 
the  new  school  and  not  of  the  old,  we  should  read 
together  Thomson's  feeble  lines  on  "Autumn"  with 
that  immortal  picture: 

When  Autumn,  bleak  and  sun-burnt,  doth  appear, 
With  his  gold  hand  gilding  the  falling  leaf, 
Bringing  up  Winter  to  fulfil  the  year, 
Bearing  upon  his  back  the  ripened  sheaf. 

The  passing  of  the  storm  in  the  "Excelente  Balade 
of  Charitie"  is  the  first  attempt  in  English  to  utilize 
towards  a  designed  effect  both  the  sound  resources 
and  the  picture  resources  of  the  language,  and  the 
song  to  Birtha  in  "Aella,"  "Oh  Sing  unto  my 
Roundelay,"  is  the  first  attempt  after  Milton's 
"L' Allegro"  to  make  a  word  melody  directly  accord- 
ant with  the  sense.  The  pictures  scattered  through 
the  Rowley  poems,  as  of  Spring,  beginning  "The 
budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light";  of  morning, 
"The  morn  begins  along  the  East  to  shine";  the 
vital  images  of  particular  scenes,  the  clean  work- 
manship and  the  controlling  view,  which  is  always 
strictly  that  of  the  artist,  always  of  one  possessed 
of  a  certain  definite  feeling  and  striving  to  transfer 
that  feeling  to  others,  crown  this  boy  as  the  first  of 
the  new  school. 

This  excellent  city  of  Bristol,  that  now  gathers  so 


;V    a 
II 


SG 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  259 

intelligently  and  guards  so  jealously  the  memorials  of 
her  greatest  son,  was  long  accused  of  indifference  to 
his  fame.  Perhaps  unjustly;  but  seventy  years  ago 
there  was  a  vicar  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe  that  obsti- 
nately refused  to  permit  a  monument  of  Chatterton 
to  stand  in  the  churchyard,  and  thus  he  clouded  the 
city's  reputation.  Yet  I  find  in  the  City  Library  of 
Bristol  an  interesting  pamphlet  giving  an  account 
of  an  honor  paid  to  Chatterton's  memory  that  has 
hitherto  escaped  the  notice  of  his  biographers.  The 
pamphlet  bears  this  title: 

The  Ode,  Songs,  Choruses,  &c. 

For  the  Concert  in 

Commemoration    of   Chatterton,    the    Celebrated    Bristol    Poet, 

As  it  was  performed  at  the  Assembly  Room  in1  Prince's 

Street,  Bristol,  on  Friday,  the  3rd  of  December, 

1784. 
Written  by  Mr.  Jenkins. 

Dear  is  his  memory  to  us,  and  long 

Long,  shall  his  attributes  be  known  in  song. 

—  Chatterton's  Miscellanies. 

London: 

Printed  and  Sold  by  J.  Bew,  Paternoster  Row 
(Price  One  Shilling.) 

The  pamphlet  begins  with  a  short  and  not  wholly 
correct  account  of  Chatterton's  life,  in  which  for 


260  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

instance  the  date  of  his  death  is  said  to  be  August  22, 
but  no  one  can  think  that  it  is  unappreciative.  On 
the  programme  performed  on  this  interesting  occa- 
sion was  a  "New  Overture,"  a  "Song  by  Miss 
Twist,"  a  piece  played  by  a  quartette  of  violins  and 
clarinets,  a  "Glee,"  sung  by  three  voices,  Messrs. 
Blanchard,  Wordsworth,  and  Russel,  with  an  oboe 
concerto;  a  "Song  by  Mr.  Wordsworth"  with  a 
violin  concerto,  and  a  duet;  after  which  came  the 
reading  of  the  ode  in  honor  of  Chatterton.  This 
ode  was  an  elaborate  composition.  It  began  with 
a  chorus: 

Strike  the  Lyre,  the  Trumpet  sound, 

Wake  to  Joy  each  silent  string, 
Let  the  vaulted  Roof  rebound, 

While  the  immortal  Bard  we  sing: 
While  we  proclaim  our  darling  Son, 
Our  pride,  our  Glory  —  Chatterton! 

This  was  followed  by  two  airs  for  solo  female 
voices,  a  recitative  and  a  final  chorus  as  follows : 

Swell  the  loud  Strain,  to  Rapture  raise  each  Voice, 
Let  drooping  Genius  and  her  Sons  rejoice! 
And  thou,  our  Avon,  proudly  roll  along 
And  to  thy  hallow'd  namesake  bear  the  Song, 
Tell  the  Vain  River,  that  thy  Stream  hath  lost 
Almost  as  sweet  a  Swan  as  hers  could  boast. 

The  monument  was  proposed   about   1838,  and 
there  is  still  extant  an  indignant  letter  to  the  "Ad- 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  261 

mirers  of  Chatterton,"  written  in  that  year  by  one 
E.M.  Bath,  in  which  the  project  is  severely  denounced 
on  the  ground  that  Thomas  Rowley  was  the  real 
poet  and  that  in  honoring  Chatterton  the  town 
would  be  honoring  a  mere  transcriber  of  another 
man's  works.  The  letter  has  further  interest  from 
the  fact  that  its  author  is  one  of  the  very  few  men 
that  have  found  Horace  Walpole's  conduct  towards 
Chatterton  to  be  admirable.  It  also  defends  Bristol 
from  the  charge  of  indifference  to  the  boy's  memory, 
arguing  that  there  was  nothing  about  him  worth 
remembering.  But  the  money  for  the  monument 
was  secured  in  spite  of  these  cogent  reasonings,  and 
the  work  was  completed,  when  the  project  encountered 
an  unforeseen  obstacle  in  the  vicar.  His  ground  of 
opposition  was  that  Chatterton  had  been  an  unbe- 
liever, that  he  had  told  untruths,  that  he  had  taken 
his  own  life  in  defiance  of  the  law  of  the  church  in 
such  cases  made  and  provided,  and  it  was  not  for 
the  morals  of  the  young  that  one  so  depraved  should 
be  remembered.  From  this  view  no  arguments 
could  move  him;  but  he  finally  consented  to  a  com- 
promise. He  agreed  to  allow  the  monument  to  be 
erected  provided  it  were  inscribed  with  nine  lines  of  his 
selecting  from  Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  consist- 
ing of  a  thundering  condemnation  of  infidels.  The 
proponents  of  the  monument  felt  the  insult  intended 
upon  the  boy's  memory,  but  rather  than  that  he 


262  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

should  longer  be  unhonored  they  consented.  The 
memorial  was  accordingly  raised  on  the  north  side  of 
the  church,  where  had  originally  stood  some  miser- 
able dwelling  houses  and  where  the  ground  was  con- 
sequently unconsecrated  and  not  liable  to  be  harmed 
by  a  monument  to  a  boy  that  had  been  driven  to 
suicide.  But  it  had  not  long  been  in  place  when 
the  vestry  determined  to  restore  the  North  Porch. 
How  the  monument  interfered  with  the  restoration 
I  cannot  say,  but  on  the  ground  of  such  interference 
the  vicar  ordered  the  stone  removed,  and  for  years 
it  lay  neglected  in  the  crypt.  At  last  the  "obstinate 
heretic"  of  a  vicar  being  removed  or  dying,  a  suc- 
cessor proved  to  be  of  good  sense,  and  permitted  the 
monument  to  be  reinstated.  It  may  do  ease  to  those 
careful  of  such  matters  to  know  that  it  is  still  outside 
the  lines  of  consecrated  ground.  It  stands  in  the 
churchyard  on  the  north  and  somewhat  to  the  east 
of  the  North  Porch.  A  pedestal  and  low  shaft  of  a 
gray  limestone  are  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  a  boy 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Blue  Coat  school.  Young's 
turgid  verses  have  been  erased  and  in  their  place 
appear  the  beautiful  lines  from  Coleridge's  "Mon- 
ody," beginning  "Sweet  flower  of  hope!" 
One  side  bears  this: 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  263 

A  Posthumous  Child,  Born  in  this  Parish,  aoth  November, 

1752.     Died  in  London,  24th  August,  1770,  act.  18. 
Admitted  into  Colston's  School,  3rd  August,  1760. 
Dunelmus  Bristolensis,  1768. 
Rowlie  MCCCCXXXXXXIX  1769. 

Another  side  bears  verses  by  the  Rev.  J.  Eagles: 

A  poor  and  friendless  boy  was  he  to  whom 

Is  raised  this  monument  without  a  tomb. 

There  seek  his  dust,  there  o'er  his  genius  sigh, 

Where  famished  outcasts  unrecorded  lie. 

Here  let  his  name,  for  here  his  genius  rose 

To  might  of  ancient  days,  in  peace  repose. 

The  wondrous  boy!  to  more  than  want  consigned, 

To  cold  neglect,  worse  famine  of  the  mind. 

All  uncongenial  the  bright  world  within 

To  that  without  of  darkness  and  of  sin. 

He  lived  a  mystery  —  died  —  Here  reader  pause; 
Let  God  be  judge  and  Mercy  plead  the  cause. 

And  there  on  a  tablet  by  itself  is  that  simple  and 
touching  epitaph  of  his  own  designing: 

"TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Reader,  judge  not.     If  thou  art  a  Christian,  believe  that  he  shall 

be  judged  by  a  supreme  power;  to  that  power  alone  is 

he  now  answerable." 


264  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

We  shall  never  know  the  face  of  this  marvelous 
boy,  for  it  may  be  taken  for  certain  that  there  is  no 
picture  of  him  extant.  The  engraved  portrait  pre- 
fixed to  the  "Life"  of  Chatterton  written  by  Dix  is 
absolutely  fraudulent.  Strange  how  every  phase  of 
this  story  has  been  distorted  by  errant  zeal  or 
intentional  deception  so  that  from  it  every  modern 
investigator  comes  with  a  new  sense  of  the  untrust- 
worthiness  of  accepted  statement!  This  picture  that 
Dix  printed  is  not  only  an  instance  in  point  but  has 
a  story  well  worth  telling  on  its  own  account.  A  few 
years  ago  the  literary  world  was  astonished  by  the 
publication  in  the  London  Atheneum  of  the  discovery 
of  a  genuine  and  undoubted  portrait  of  Chatterton 
in  the  possession  of  the  family  of  the  late  Sir  Henry 
Taylor,  author  of  "Philip  van  Artevelde."  The 
publication  was  made  in  good  faith  and  on  such 
authority  that  the  fact  seemed  indisputable.  That 
the  world  had  not  before  known  what  so  many  men 
had  sought  was  easily  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that 
Sir  Henry  lived  a  very  retired  life  at  Kensington 
and  few  persons  had  opportunity  to  know  of  his 
treasure.  The  portrait  was  vouched  for  by  an 
inscription  on  the  back,  and  was  accompanied  by  a 
statement  that  seemed  extremely  plausible.  It  had 
been  painted  for  Chatterton's  mother;  after  Mrs. 
Chatterton's  death  it  had  passed  to  her  daughter,  then 
become  Mrs.  Newton.  Robert  Southey,  the  laureate, 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  265 

had  been  very  kind  to  Mrs.  Newton.  She  had  re- 
warded his  kindness  by  giving  him  this  portrait. 
At  Southey's  death  it  had  been  acquired  by  Words- 
worth, whose  sister  had  eventually  presented  it 
to  Sir  Henry  Taylor.  A  discovery  of  this  importance, 
involving  so  many  famous  names,  naturally  aroused 
keen  interest.  A  controversy  broke  out  that  re- 
sembled in  a  small  way  the  combats  over  Rowley. 
The  truth  was  hard  to  arrive  at.  The  story  seemed 
as  well  authenticated  as  anything  of  the  kind 
could  be,  and  yet  it  was  on  the  face  of  it  most  un- 
likely. The  picture  was  of  a  boy  seven,  or  at  the 
most  eight  years  old,  and  yet  it  was  dated  1762.  In 
1762  Chatterton  was  ten,  and  it  was  agreed  on  all 
hands  that  he  was  unusually  mature  in  his  looks. 
The  picture  showed  a  boy  in  a  red  coat.  In  1762 
Chatterton  was  wearing  the  blue  coat  of  the  Colston 
uniform.  The  picture  showed  a  boy  with  black  or 
dark  brown  hair  and  with  dark  eyes.  It  was  well 
established  that  Chatterton's  hair  was  flaxen  and 
his  eyes  were  gray.  In  1762  Mrs.  Chatterton  was 
struggling  hard  for  daily  bread;  it  was  not  possible 
that  she  could  have  afforded  the  luxury  of  a  portrait. 
Moreover,  there  were  the  pilgrims  to  Bristol  and  the 
various  investigators  that  had  hunted  so  many  years 
for  such  a  picture  and  found  no  trace  of  it.  And 
yet  the  statements  of  the  inscription  were  as  explicit 
as  could  be  desired. 


266  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

At  last,  after  a  patient  investigation,  aided  by  the 
willing  cooperation  of  gentlemen  in  Bristol  whose 
grandfathers  or  great-grandfathers  had  known  the 
facts,  the  truth  was  disclosed.  The  picture  was 
really  the  work  of  a  Bristol  artist  named  Morris, 
who  painted  it  as  a  study  of  his  own  son.  Years 
afterward  it  was  engraved  by  a  Bristol  engraver 
as  a  specimen  of  his  work  and  skill.  In  1837,  when 
Dix  was  in  Bristol  gathering  information  for  his 
"Life,"  walking  down  a  street  one  day  with  George 
Burge  they  came  upon  this  engraving  in  the  en- 
graver's shop  window.  Burge  suggested  that  the 
face  might  have  resembled  Chatterton.  That  is  all 
we  know  positively,  but  the  next  we  hear  of  the  por- 
trait it  reappeared  in  Dix's  book  as  a  veritable  pic- 
ture of  Chatterton.  It  is  charitable  to  suppose  that 
Dix  was  deceived  in  some  way,  but  difficult  to  imagine 
the  way.  Dix's  error,  if  it  were  only  an  error  and 
not  an  intentional  fraud,  fixed  a  like  blunder  upon 
the  original  painting,  but  the  details  of  the  trans- 
mission through  the  hands  of  Southey  and  Words- 
worth can  only  be  guessed  at.  Mrs.  Newton  never 
gave  the  picture  to  Southey,  but  he  may  have  had  it 
in  another  way,  and  some  fertile  imagination  like 
that  of  Dix  may  have  supplied  the  rest  of  the  story. 
Whatever  was  the  origin  of  the  fabrication  it  was 
strong  enough  to  deceive  Sir  Henry  Taylor.  As  an 
interesting  side-light  on  what  men  do,  not  knowing 


THE  WORLD'S  VERDICT  267 

what  they  do,  it  may  be  recalled  that  Dix  printed  a 
letter  from  Southey  cordially  endorsing  the  engraved 
portrait  of  the  painter's  son  on  the  ground  that  it 
resembled  Mrs.  Newton.  As  he  had  never  seen 
Chatterton  this  was  as  far  as  Southey  could  go.  It 
appears  that  Dix  was  willing  to  go  farther. 

I  offer  this  remarkable  story  as  an  illustration  of 
the  strange  fatality  that  from  the  first  has  overhung 
this  boy,  and  clouded  with  untruth  everything  con- 
nected with  him,  untruth  that  has  injured  both  his 
artistic  standing  and  his  personal  reputation.  As 
an  example  of  the  first  I  cite  the  general  assumption 
that  he  was  inspired  to  his  imitations  by  the  example 
of  Macpherson,  and  that  he  was,  therefore,  the  imi- 
tator of  an  impostor,  the  second  power  of  a  fraud; 
whereas  the  truth  is  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
Rowley  poems  was  completed  before  Chatterton 
had  seen  or  heard  of  Ossian.  As  a  specimen  of  the 
second  and  still  commoner  injustice  I  remind  you  of 
the  assertion  that  he  was  from  his  childhood  of  a 
sullen  and  perverse  disposition,  incorrigible  and  even 
depraved,  whereas  in  truth  he  was  most  kindly,  gentle, 
generous,  and  affectionate ;  inclined  to  melancholy 
thought,  indeed,  but  never  sullen,  and  really  pos- 
sessed of  high  ideals. 

General  recognition  has  come  tardily  to  him  be- 
cause of  the  prejudice  created  by  that  absurd  charge 
of  "forgery,"  because  of  the  other  prejudice  aroused 


268  THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

by  his  democratic  faith,  and  again  because  of  the 
apparent  difficulty  of  reading  and  judging  his  work, 
a  difficulty  due  solely  to  his  imitations  of  antique 
spelling  and  phraseology.  These  are  but  temporary 
and  superficial  barriers.  No  man  in  English  litera- 
ture is  surer  of  his  eventual  fame.  After  all,  preju- 
dice is  but  a  mortal  growth  and  evanescent :  the  wrork 
it  has  overrun  remains  forever.  Year  by  year  the 
world  views  with  more  compassion  the  struggles  of 
this  sorely  tried  and  lonely  soul,  with  more  tears  the 
few  little  footsteps  wandering  in  the  dark,  with  more 
admiration  the  clarity  of  the  genius  that  shone 
through  all.  Year  by  year,  more  of  us,1 1  think,  per- 
ceive how  just  and  true  was  the  estimate  of  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti,  when  he  unhesitatingly  placed 
Thomas  Chatterton  among  the  greatest  poets  and 
most  amazing  minds  that  have  lighted  the  ways  of 
men. 


APPENDIX 


HISTORIE  OF  PEYNCTERS  YN  ENGLANDE 
BIE  T.  ROWLIE 

[This  document  accompanied  Chatterton's  second  letter  to  Walpole.] 

HAVEYNGE  sayde  yn  oder  places  of  peyncteynge  and  the 
ryse  thereof,  eke  of  somme  peyncteres;  nowe  bee  ytte  toe 
be  sayde  of  oders  wordie  of  note.  Afwolde  was  a  skylled 
wyghte  yn  laieynge  onne  of  coloures;  hee  lyved  yn  Merciae, 
ynne  the  daies  of  Kynge  Offa,  ande  depycted  the  counte- 
naunce  of  Eadburga,  his  dawter,  whyche  depycture  beeynge 
borne  to  Bryghtrycke  he  toke  her  to  wyfe,  as  maie  be  scene 
at  large  in  Alfridus.1  Edilwald,  Kynge  of  the  Northumbers, 
understode  peyncteynge,  botte  I  cannot  fynde  anie  piece 
of  hys  nemped.2  Inne  a  mansion  at  Copenhamme  I  have 
scene  a  peyncteynge  of  moche  antiquite,  where  is  sitteynge 
Egbrychte  in  a  royaul  mannere,  wythe  kynges  yn  chaynes 
at  hys  fote,  wythe  meincte  semblable  3  fygures  whyche  were 
symboles  of  hys  lyfe;  and  I  haveth  noted  the  Saxons  to  be 
more  notable  ynne  lore  and  peyncteynge  thann  the  Nor- 
mannes,  nor  ys  the  monies  sythence  the  daies  of  Willyame 

1  This  is  a  writer  whose  works  I  have  never  been  happy  enough  to  meet  with. 

2  Nemped  —  mentioned.  3  Semblable  —  metaphorical. 

269 


270  APPENDIX 

le  Bastarde  so  fayrelie  stroken  as  aforetyme.  I  eke  haveth 
scene  the  armorie  of  East  Sexe  most  fetyvelie  1  depycted, 
ynn  the  medst  of  an  auntyaunte  wall.  Botte  nowe  we  bee 
upon  peyncteynge,  sommewhatte  maie  bee  saide  of  the 
poemes  of  these  dales,  whyche  bee  toe  the  mynde  what 
peyncteynge  bee  toe  the  eyne,  the  coloures  of  the  fyrste 
beeynge  mo  dureynge.  Ecca  Byshoppe  of  Hereforde  yn 
D.  LVII.  was  a  goode  poete,  whome  I  thus  Englyshe:  — 

Whan  azure  skie  ys  veylde  yn  robes  of  nyghte 

Whanne  glemmrynge  dewe  droppes  stounde  2  the  faytours  3  eyne, 
Whanne  flying  cloudes,  betinged  wyth  roddie  lyghte, 

Doth  on  the  bryndlynge  wolfe  and  wood  bore  shine, 
Whanne  even  star,  fayre  herehaughte  of  nyghte, 
Spreds  the  darke  douskie  sheene  along  the  mees,4 

The  wrethynge  neders  5  sends  a  glumie  8  lyghte, 
And  houlets  wynge  from  levyn  7  blasted  trees. 

Arise  mie  spryghte  and  seke  the  distant  delle, 

And  there  to  echoing  tonges  thie  raptured  joies  ytele. 

Gif  thys  manne  han  no  hande  for  a  peynter,  he  had  a 
head;  a  pycture  appearethe  ynne  each  lyne,  and  I  wys  so 
fyne  an  even  sighte  mote  be  drawn  as  ynne  above.  In 
anoder  of  hys  vearses  he  saithe:  — 

Whanne  sprynge  came  dauncynge  onne  a  flourette  bedde, 
Dighte  ynne  greene  raimente  of  a  chaungynge  kynde; 

The  leaves  of  hawthorne  boddeynge  on  hys  hedde, 
And  wythe  prymrosen  coureynge  to  the  wynde: 

1  Fetyvelie  —  elegantly,  handsomely.  2  Stounde  —  astonish. 

3  Faytours  —  travellers.  4  Mees  —  mead. 

8  Neders  —  adders,  used  here  perhaps  as  a  glow-worm. 

8  Glumie  —  dull,  gloomy.  7  Levyn  —  blasted  by  lightning. 


APPENDIX  271 

Thanne  dydd  the  Shepster  1  hys  longe  albanne  2  spredde 
Uponne  the  greenie  bancke  and  daunced  rounde 

Whilest  the  soest  flowretes  nodded  onne  his  hedde, 
And  hys  fayre  lambes  besprenged  3  onne  the  grounde, 

Anethe  hys  fote  the  brooklette  ranne  alonge, 

Whyche  strolleth  rounde  the  vale  to  here  his  joyous  songe. 

Methynckethe  these  bee  thoughtes  notte  oft  to  be  metten 
wyth,  and  ne  to  bee  excellede  yn  theyre  kynde.  Elmar, 
Byshoppe  of  Selesie,  was  fetyve  yn  workes  of  ghastlieness,4 
for  the  whyche  take  yee  thys  speeche :  — 

Nowe  maie  alle  helle  open  to  glope  thee  downe, 

Whylst  azure  merke  5  immenged  6  wythe  the  daie, 
Shewe  lyghte  on  darkned  peynes  to  be  moe  roune,7 

O  mayest  thou  die  lyvinge  deathes  for  aie: 
Maie  floodes  of  Solfirre  bear  thie  sprighte  anoune  8 

Synkeynge  to  depths  of  woe,  maie  levynne  brondes  9 
Tremble  upon  thie  peyne  devoted  crowne, 

And  senge  thie  alle  yn  vayne  emploreynge  hondes; 
Maie  all  the  woes  that  Godis  wrathe  can  sende 
Upon  thie  heade  alyghte,  and  there  theyre  furie  spende. 

Gorweth  of  Wales  be  sayde  to  be  a  wryter  goode,  botte 
I  understande  notte  that  tonge.  Thus  moche  for  poetes, 
whose  poesies  do  beere  resemblance  to  pyctures  in  mie 
unwordie  opynion.  Asserius  was  wryter  of  hystories;  he 
ys  buryed  at  Seyncte  Keynas  College  ynne  Keynshamm 

1  Shepster  —  shepherd.  s  Merke  —  darkness. 

2  Albanne  —  a  large  loose  white  robe.  6  Immenged —  mingled. 

3  Besprenged  —  scattered.  7  Roune  —  terrific. 

4  Ghastlieness  —  terror.  8  Anoune  —  ever  and  anon. 

9  Levynne  brondes  —  thunderbolts. 


272  APPENDIX 

wythe  Turgotte,  anoder  wryter  of  hystories,  Inne  the  walle 
of  this  college  ys  a  tombe  of  Seyncte  Keyna  1  whych  was 
ydoulven  anie,  and  placed  ynne  the  walle,  albeit  done  yn 
the  daies  of  Cerdyke,  as  appeared  bie  a  crosse  of  leade 
upon  the  kyste;2  ytte  bee  moe  notablie  performed  than 
meynte  3  of  ymageries  4  of  these  daies.  Inne  the  chyrche 
wyndowe  ys  a  geason B  peyncteynge  of  Seyncte  Keyna 
syttynge  yn  a  trefoliated  chayre,  ynne  a  long  alban  braced 
wythe  golden  gyrdles  from  the  wayste  upwarde  to  the 
breaste,  over  the  whyche  ys  a  small  azure  coape;8  benethe 
ys  depycted  Galfridus,  MLV.  whyche  maie  bee  that  Geof- 
froie  who  ybuylded  the  geason  gate  7  to  Seyncte  Augustynes 
chapele  once  leadynge.  Harrie  Piercie  of  Northomber- 
lande  was  a  quaynte  8  peyncter;  he  lyvede  yn  M.  C.  and 
depycted  severalle  of  the  wyndowes  ynne  Thonge  Abbye, 
the  greate  windowe  atte  Battaile  Abbeie;  he  depycted  the 
face  verie  welle  wythalle,  botte  was  lackeynge  yn  the  most- 
to-bee-loked-to-accounte,  proportione.  John  a  Roane 
payncted  the  shape  of  a  hayre:  he  carved  the  castle  for  the 
sheelde  of  Gilberte  Clare  of  thek  9  feytyve  performaunce. 
Elwarde  ycorne  10  the  castle  for  the  seal  of  Kynge  Harolde 
of  most  geason  worke;  nor  has  anie  scale  sythence  bynne  so 
rare,  excepte  the  scale  of  Kinge  Henrie  the  fyfthe,  corven 
by  Josephe  Whetgyfte.  Thomas  a  Baker  from  corveynge 
crosse  loafes,  tooke  to  corveying  of  ymageryes,  whych  he 

1  This  I  believe  is  there  now.  2  Kyste  —  coffin. 

8  Meynte  —  many.  *  Ymageries  —  statues,  etc. 

8  Geason  —  curious.  6  Coape  —  cloak  or  mantle. 

7  This  gate  is  now  standing  in  this  city,  though  the  chapel  is  not  to  be  seen. 

8  Quaynte  —  curious.  9  Thek  —  very. 

10  Ycorne  —  a  contraction  of  ycorven,  carved. 


APPENDIX  273 

dyd  most  fetyvelie;  he  lyved  ynne  the  cittie  of  Bathe,  beeynge 
the  fyrste  yn  Englande,  thatte  used  hayre  ynne  the  bowe 
of  the  fyddle,1  beeynge  before  used  wythe  peetched  hempe 
or  flax.  Thys  carveller  dyd  decase  yn  MLXXI.  Thus 
moche  for  carvellers  and  peyncters. 

[Comment  by  Chatterton.] 

John  was  inducted  abbot  in  the  year  1146,  and  sat  in  the 
dies  29  years.  As  you  approve  of  the  small  specimen  of 
his  poetry,  I  have  sent  you  a  larger,  which  though  ad- 
mirable is  still  (in  my  opinion)  inferior  to  Rowley 2  whose 
works  when  I  have  leisure  I  will  fairly  copy  and  send  you. 

1  Nothing  is  so  much  wanted  as  a  History  of  the  Antiquity  of  the  Violin,  nor  is 
any  antiquary  more  able  to  do  it  than  yourself.    Such  a  piece  would  redound  to 
the  honour  of  England,  as  Rowley  proves  the  use  of  the  bow  to  be  knowne  to  the 
Saxons,  and  even  introduced  by  them. 

2  None  of  Rowley's  pieces  were  ever  made  public,  being,  till  the  year  1631,  shut 
up  in  the  iron  chest  in  Redcliffe  Church. 


II 

WILLIAM  CANYNGE 

[The  following  extracts  are  from  Mr.  George  Pryce's  "Memorials  of  the 
Canynges'  Family  and  their  Times,"  Bristol,  1854;  an  interesting  book  to 
which  I  am  under  very  great  obligations  for  information,  much  of  it  now 
inaccessible  elsewhere.] 

TOWARDS  the  close  of  the  year  in  which  William  Canynges 
for  the  fourth  time  occupied  the  chair  of  Bristol's  Chief 
Magistrate,  the  old  town  was  visited  by  King  Edward  IV, 
who  was  then  on  a  tour  through  the  Western  Counties.  In 
recording  this  visit,  quaint  old  John  Stow  informs  his 
readers  that  "in  the  harvest  season,  King  Edward  rode  to 
Canterbury  and  to  Sandwich,  and  so  along  by  the  sea 
coast  to  Hampton,  and  from  thence  into  the  Marches  of 
Wales,  and  to  Bristow,  where  he  was  most  royally  received"; 
and  the  following  very  curious  account  of  the  pageant 
which  welcomed  him  is  supplied  by  the  learned  editor  of 
Warkworth's  Chronicle,  in  his  notes  appended  to  that 
volume.1  It  commences  with 

"The  receyvyng  of  Kyng  Edward  iiijth  at  Brystowe. 
"First,  at    the   comying   inne    atte   temple   gate,  there   stode 
Wylliam  Conquerour,  with  iij.  lordis,  and  these  were  his  wordis:  — 

1  This  example  from  a  genuine  old  chronicle  should  be  compared  with 
Chafterton's  account  of  the  opening  of  the  old  bridge  and  the  specimens  of 
his  work  in  the  antique  style. 

274 


APPENDIX  275 

'Wellcome  Edwarde!  cure  son  of  high  degre; 
Many  yeeris  hast  thou  lakkyd  owte  of  this  londe  — 
I  am  thy  forefader,  Wylliam  of  Normandye, 
To  see  thy  welefare  here  through  Goddys  sond.' 

"Over  the  same  gate  stondyng  a  greet  Gyant  delyveryng  the 
keyes. 

"The  Receyvyng  atte  Temple  Crosse  next  following;  — 

"There  was  Seynt  George  on  horsbakke,  uppon  a  tent,  fyghtyng 
with  a  dragon;  and  the  Kyng  and  the  Quene  on  hygh  in  a  castell, 
and  his  doughter  benethe  with  a  lambe;  and  atte  the  sleying  of  the 
dragon  ther  was  a  great  melody  of  aungellys." 

The  welcome  given  to  the  king  by  William  Canynges, 
and  the  feasting  of  the  monarch  in  his  house,  has  been 
already  sufficiently  noticed;  but  the  particulars  of  the  visit, 
so  far  as  it  regards  the  wealthy  merchant's  commercial 
affairs,  (and  upon  the  prosperous  state  of  which  the  sovereign 
calculated  he  should  exact,  in  conjunction  with  aids  from 
other  opulent  traders  in  the  old  town,  the  forced  loan  before 
referred  to,)  require  more  than  a  merely  passing  remark. 

It  appears  that  on  his  arrival,  Edward  commenced 
taking  stock  of  the  port;  that  is,  the  number  of  vessels 
belonging  to  each  individual  and  their  value  was  carefully 
ascertained;  and  then  a  certain  amount,  not  mentioned, 
was  assessed  upon  them  to  be  paid  to  the  King.  Although 
the  names  and  tonnage  of  the  vessels  possessed  by  other 
merchants  at  this  time  in  Bristol  are  not  recorded,  those 
belonging  to  William  Canynges  have  been  noted  by  William 
of  Wyrcestre,  and  described  as  follows:  —  The  Mary 
Canynges,  400  tons  burthen;  the  Mary  Radclyf,  500  tons; 


276  APPENDIX 

Mary  and  John,  900  tons;  the  Galyot,  50  tons;  the  Cateryn, 
140  tons;  the  Marybat,  220  tons;  the  Margyt  de  Tynly, 
200  tons;  the  lytylle  Nicholas,  140  tons;  the  Kateryn  de 

Boston,    220   tons;   the ship,    in    Iselond,    (not 

Ireland,  as  Mr.  Barrett  calls  it,)  160  tons;  in  the  whole, 
2853  tons  of  shipping,  manned  by  800  mariners. 

In  this  year  also  Canynges  again  evidenced  his  love  of 
Mother  Church,  as  appears  by  the  following  which  occurs 
among  the  "City  Benefactions,"  recorded  by  Barrett:  — 

"1466.     William  Canynges  gave  by  deed  for 

divine  offices  in  Redcliffe  Church 340  o  o 

And  in  plate  to  the  said  Church: 160  o  o 

Vested  in  the  vicar  and  proctors  of  Redcliffe: £500  o  o" 

To  this  donation  I  shall  have  occasion  to  refer  at  greater 
length  when  treating  of  the  structure  named  in  the  bequest. 
The  Mayor's  Calendar,  by  Robert  Ricaut,  preserved  in 
the  archives  of  the  Corporation,  under  date  of  1467,  says: 
"This  yere  the  said  William  Canynges  Maire  shulde  have 
be  (been)  maired  (married)  by  the  Kyng  our  Souverain 
Lord  comandement  as  it  was  saide  Wherefore  the  said 
Canynges  gave  up  the  Worlde  and  in  all  haste  toke  ordirs 
upon  hym  of  the  gode  Bisshop  of  Worcestre  called  Carpyn- 
ter,  and  was  made  Freest  and  sange  his  furst  Masse  at  our 
Lady  of  Redclif  the  yere  folowying  R  Jakys  beeng  Maire 
at  Whitsontide  and  after  that  he  was  Dean  of  Westbury 
certein  years  &  dececed  &  was  buried  Worshipfully  at 
Redeclif  by  his  Wife  in  the  south  ende  of  the  Medyll  yle  of 
the  saide  Churche." 


Ill 

CANYNGE  AND  ROWLEY 

[This  specimen  of  Rowley's  Prose  is  taken  from  "Chatterton's  Miscellanies," 
London,  1778.  It  is  called  "Some  farther  Account  of  this  Extraordinary  Person 
[Canynge]  written  by  Rowley  the  Priest."] 

I  WAS  fadre  confessor  to  masteres  Roberte  and  mastre 
William  Cannings.  Mastre  Robert  was  a  man  after  his 
fadre's  own  harte,  greedie  of  gaynes  and  sparynge  of  alms 
deedes;  but  master  William  was  mickle  courteous,  and 
gave  me  many  marks  in  my  needs.  At  the  age  of  22  years 
deaces'd  master  Roberte,  and  by  master  William's  desyre 
bequeathed  me  one  hundred  marks;  I  went  to  thank  master 
William  for  his  mickle  courtesie,  and  to  make  tender  of 
myselfe  to  him.  —  Fadre  quode  he,  I  have  a  crotchett  in  my 
brayne,  that  will  need  your  aide.  Master  William,  said  I, 
if  you  command  me  I  will  go  to  Roome  for  you;  not  so  farr 
distant,  said  he:  I  ken  you  for  a  mickle  learnd  priest;  if  you 
will  leave  the  parysh  of  our  ladie,  and  travel  for  mee,  it 
shall  be  mickle  to  your  profits. 

I  gave  my  hands,  and  he  told  mee  I  must  goe  to  all  the 
abbies  and  pryorys,  and  gather  together  auncient  drawyings, 
if  of  anie  account,  at  any  price.  Consented  I  to  the  same, 
and  pursuant  sett  out  the  Mundaie  following  for  the  minister 
of  our  Ladie  and  Saint  Goodwyne,  where  a  drawing  of  a 
steeple,  contryvd  for  the  belles  when  runge  to  swaie  out  of 

277 


278  APPENDIX 

the  syde  into  the  ayre,  had  I  thence;  it  was  done  by  Syr 
Symon  de  Mambrie,  who,  in  the  troublesomme  rayne  of 
kyng  Stephen,  devoted  himselfe,  and  was  shorne. 

Hawkes  showd  me  a  manuscript  in  Saxonne,  but  I  was 
onley  to  bargayne  for  drawyings.  —  The  next  drawyings  I 
metten  with  was  a  church  to  be  reard,  so  as  in  form  of  a 
cross,  the  end  standing  in  the  ground;  a  long  manuscript 
was  annexd.  Master  Canning  thought  no  workman 
culd  be  found  handie  enough  to  do  it.  —  The  tale  of  the 
drawers  deserveth  relation.  —  Thomas  de  Blunderville,  a 
preeste,  although  the  preeste  had  no  allows,  lovd  a  fair 
mayden,  and  on  her  begatt  a  sonn.  Thomas  educated 
his  sonn;  at  sixteen  years  he  went  into  the  warrs,  and  neer 
did  return  for  five  years.  —  His  mother  was  married  to  a 
knight,  and  bare  a  daughter,  then  sixteen,  who  was  seen 
and  lovd  by  Thomas,  sonn  of  Thomas,  and  married  to  him, 
unknown  to  her  mother,  by  Ralph  de  Mesching,  of  the 
minister,  who  invited,  as  custom  was,  two  of  his  brothers, 
Thomas  de  Blunderville  and  John  Heschamme.  Thomas 
nevertheless  had  not  seen  his  sonn  for  five  years,  yet  kennd 
him  instauntly;  and  learning  the  name  of  the  bryde,  took 
him  asydde  and  disclosd  to  him  that  he  was  his  sonn,  and 
was  weded  to'  his  own  sistre.  Yoynge  Thomas  toke  on  so 
that  he  was  shorne. 

He  drew  manie  fine  drawyings  on  glass. 

The  abott  of  the  minster  of  Peterburrow  sold  it  me;  he 
might  have  bargaynd  20  marks  better,  but  master  William 
would  not  part  with  it.  The  prior  of  Coventree  did  sell 


APPENDIX  279 

me  a  picture  of  great  account,  made  by  Badilian  Y'allyanne, 
who  did  live  in  the  reign  of  Kynge  Henrie  the  First,  a  mann 
of  fickle  temper,  havyng  been  tendred  syx  pounds  of  silver 
for  it,  to  which  he  said  naie,  and  afterwards  did  give  it  to 
the  then  abott  of  Coventriee.  In  brief,  I  gathered  together 
manie  marks  value  of  fine  drawyings,  all  the  works  of 
mickle  cunning.  —  Master  William  culld  the  most  choise 
parts,  but  hearing  of  a  drawying  in  Durham  church  hee 
did  send  me. 

Fadree,  you  have  done  mickle  well,  all  the  chatills  are 
more  worth  then  you  gave;  take  this  for  your  paynes:  so 
saying,  he  did  put  into  my  hands  a  purse  of  two  hundreds 
good  pounds,  and  did  say  that  I  should  note  be  in  need; 
I  did  thank  him  most  heartily.  —  The  choice  drawying, 
when  his  fadre  did  dye,  was  begunn  to  be  put  up,  and 
somme  houses  neer  the  old  church  erased;  it  was  drawn 
by  Aflema,  preeste  of  St.  Cutchburts,  and  offerd  as  a 
drawyng  for  Westminster,  but  cast  asyde,  being  the  tender 
did  not  speak  French.  —  I  had  now  mickle  of  ryches,  and 
lyvd  in  a  house  on  the  hyll,  often  repayrings  to  mastere 
William,  who  was  now  lord  of  the  house.  I  sent  him  my 
verses  touching  his  church,  for  which  he  did  send  me  mickle 
good  things.  —  In  the  year  kyng  Edward  came  to  Bristow, 
master  Cannings  send  for  me  to  avoid  a  marrige  which 
the  kyng  was  bent  upon  between  him  and  a  ladie  he  neer 
had  seen,  of  the  familee  of  the  Winddevilles;  the  danger 
were  nigh,  unless  avoided  by  one  remidee,  an  holie  one, 
which  was,  to  be  ordained  a  sonn  of  holy  church,  beyng 
franke  from  the  power  of  kynges  in  that  cause,  and  cannot 


280  APPENDIX 

be  wedded.  —  Mr.  Cannings  instauntlysent  me  to  Carpenter, 
his  good  friend,  bishop  of  Worcester,  and  the  Fryday 
following  was  prepaird  and  ordaynd  the  next  day,  the  daie 
of  St.  Mathew,  and  on  Sunday  sung  his  first  mass  in  the 
church  of  our  Ladie,  to  the  astonishing  of  kyng  Edward, 
who  was  so  furiously  madd  and  ravyngs  withall,  that 
master  Cannings  was  wyling  to  give  him  3000  markes, 
which  made  him  peace  again,  and  he  was  admyted  to  the 
presence  of  the  kyng,  staid  in  Bristow,  partook  of  all  his 
pleasures  and  pastimes  till  he  departed  the  next  year. 

I  gave  master  Cannings  my  Bristow  tragedy,  for  which 
he  gave  me  in  hands  twentie  pounds,  and  did  praise  it  more 
then  I  did  think  my  self  did  deserve,  for  I  can  say  in  troth 
I  was  never  proud  of  my  verses  since  I  did  read  master 
Chaucer;  and  now  haveing  nought  to  do,  and  not  wyling 
to  be  ydle,  I  went  to  the  minster  of  our  Ladie  and  Saint 
Goodwin,  and  then  did  purchase  the  Saxon  manuscripts, 
and  sett  my  selfe  diligentley  to  translate  and  worde  it  in 
English  metre,  which  in  one  year  I  performd  and  styled 
it  the  Battle  of  Hastyngs;  master  William  did  bargyin  for 
one  manuscript,  and  John  Pelham,  an  esquire,  of  Ashley, 
for  another.  —  Master  William  did  praise  it  muckle  greatly, 
but  advisd  me  to  tender  it  to  no  man,  beying  the  menn 
whose  name  were  therein  mentiond  would  be  offended. 
He  gave  me  20  markes,  and  I  did  goe  to  Ashley,  to  master 
Pelham,  to  be  payd  of  him  for  the  other  one  I  left  with  him. 

But  his  ladie  being  of  the  family  of  the  Fiscamps,  of 
whom  some  things  are  said,  he  told  me  he  had  burnt  it, 


APPENDIX  281 

and  would  have  me  burnt  too  if  I  did  not  avaunt.  Dureing 
this  dinn  his  wife  did  come  out,  and  made  a  dinn  to  speake 
by  a  figure,  would  have  over  sounded  the  bells  of  our  Ladie 
of  the  Cliffe;  I  was  fain  content  to  gett  away  in  a  safe  skin. 

I  wrote  my  Justice  of  Peace,  which  master  Cannings 
advisd  me  secrett  to  keep,  which  I  did;  and  now  being 
grown  auncient  I  was  seizd  with  great  pains,  which  did 
cost  me  mickle  of  marks  to  be  cured  off.  —  Master  William 
offered  me  a  cannon's  place  in  Westbury-College,  which 
gladly  had  I  accepted  but  my  pains  made  me  to  stay  at 
home.  After  this  mischance  I  livd  in  a  house  by  the 
Tower,  which  has  not  been  repaird  since  Robert  Consull 
of  Gloucester  repayrd  the  castle  and  wall;  here  I  livd  warm, 
but  in  my  house  on  the  hyll  the  ayer  was  mickle  keen; 
some  marks  it  cost  me  to  put  in  repair  my  new  house;  and 
brynging  my  chatties  from  the  ould;  it  was  a  fine  house, 
and  I  much  marville  it  was  untenanted.  A  person  greedy 
of  gains  was  the  then  possessour,  and  of  him  I  did  buy  it 
at  a  very  small  rate,  having  lookd  on  the  ground  works  and 
mayne  supports,  and  fynding  them  staunch,  and  repayrs 
no  need  wanting,  I  did  buy  of  the  owner,  Geoffrey  Coombe, 
on  a  repayring  lease  for  99  years,  he  thinkying  it  would  fall 
down  everie  day;  but  with  a  few  marks  expence  did  put  it 
up  a  manner  neat,  and  therein  I  lyvd. 


IV 

THE  ROWLEY  CONTROVERSY 

[Specimen  Pages  from  "Bryant's  Observations."    He  is  treating  of  the  "Battle 
of  Hastings,"  No.  i.] 

I  CANNOT  quit  this  subject  without  mentioning  a  passage 
in  the  poet,  which  may  perhaps  further  illustrate,  what  I 
have  been  saying.  In  the  beginning  of  the  Battle  of  Hast- 
ings, there  is  a  noble  apostrophe  made  to  the  sea:  concern- 
ing whose  influence  the  poet  speaks  with  regret:  as  it  was 
not  exerted  to  the  destruction  of  the  Normans. 

O  sea,  our  teeming  donore,  han  thy  floud 

Han  anie  fructuous  entendement, 
Thou  wouldst  have  rose  and  sank  wyth  tydes  of  bloude, 

Before  Duke  William's  Knyghts  han  hither  went: 
Whose  cowart  arrows  menie  erles  (have)  sleyne, 

And  brued  the  feeld  wyth  bloude  as  season  rayne. 

p.  210. 

I  mention  this,  because  I  think,  that  we  may  perceive  here 
a  tacit  reference  to  an  event;  which  at  first  sight  is  not 
obvious.  The  author  in  his  address  to  the  sea  seems  to 
say,  had  thy  flood  been  calculated  for  any  good,  it  would 
have  arisen,  before  the  Norman  navy  had  reached  our 
shores:  and  preserved  us  from  that  fatal  invasion.  When 
therefore  he  says,  had  thy  flood  had  any  good  intention, 

282 


APPENDIX  283 

it  is  natural  to  ask,  when:  and  upon  what  occasion.  For 
by  the  tenour  of  the  words  he  seems  to  refer  to  a  time;  and 
allude  to  some  particular  crisis.  And  when  he  adds,  after 
this  intimation,  that  it  would  then  have  risen  before  the 
landing  of  the  Normans,  he  seems  to  indicate,  that  it  had 
risen,  but  at  a  less  favourable  season.  It  appears,  there- 
fore, to  me,  that  there  is  in  this  passage  to  be  observed  one 
of  those  occult  allusions,  of  which  I  made  mention  before. 
There  is  certainly  a  retrospect  to  an  event,  well  known  in 
the  age  of  the  writer:  and  that  event  was  an  overflowing 
of  the  sea.  Now  it  is  remarkable,  that  at  the  time,  when 
I  suppose  the  first  sketch  of  this  poem  to  have  been  pro- 
duced, there  were  great  inundations  upon  the  southern 
coasts  of  England,  which  are  taken  notice  of  by  several  of 
our  historians.  They  happened  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
reign  of  William  Rufus,  and  in  the  early  part  of  that  of  his 
successor.  That  in  the  time  of  Rufus  is  mentioned,  as 
very  extraordinary  in  its  effects;  and  consequently  very 
alarming.  The  author  of  the  Saxon  Chronicle  speaks  of 
its  being  attended  with  the  greatest  damages  ever  known. 
The  like  is  recorded  by  Simeon  of  Durham.  Mare  littus 
egreditur;  et  villas  et  homines  quam  plures,  etc.,  demersit. 
Florence  of  Worcester  writes  to  the  same  purpose.  Great 
part  of  Zealand  is  said  at  this  time  to  have  suffered:  and 
the  Goodwin  sands  are  supposed  to  have  been  formed  by 
this  inundation,  which  before  did  not  appear. 

Mr.  Tyrwhitt  thinks,  that,  instead  of  O  Sea,  our  teeming 
Donore,  the  true  reading  was,  O,  sea-o'er-teeming  Dover. 
This  is  a  very  ingenious  alteration,  and  I  think  highly 
probable.  But  instead  of  forming  a  decompound,  I  should 


284  APPENDIX 

rather  separate  the  second  term,  and  read,  O  Sea,  o'er- 
teeming  Dover:  for  the  address  must  be  to  the  sea,  and  not 
to  the  place:  as  the  poet  in  the  third  verse  speaks  of  its 
rising.  Now  to  teem  signifies  to  abound  and  to  be  pro- 
lifick:  also  to  pour  and  fill.  Hence  we  find  in  Ainsworth, 
teemful,  brimful.  The  same  also  occurs  in  Ray's  North 
Country  words :  To  teem,  to  pour  out,  or  lade.  Also  teem- 
ful, brimful,  having  as  much  as  can  be  teemed  in;  i.e. 
poured  in.  p.  60,  61.  Accordingly,  o'er-teeming  must 
signify  overflowing,  pouring  over.  When  therefore  the 
poet  addresses  himself  to  this  o'er-teeming  sea,  he  seems 
to  allude  to  that  general  inundation,  by  which  Dover,  and 
many  other  places  upon  the  southern  coast  of  this  island, 
were  overwhelmed.  Stow  mentions  that  this  flood  did 
great  mischief  to  many  towns  and  villages  upon  the  sides 
of  the  Thames:  and  it  is  said  to  have  prevailed  in  the  North, 
as  high  up  as  Scotland.  But  its  chief  fury  seems  to  have 
been  in  the  narrow  seas  of  the  channel;  and  upon  those 
very  coasts  upon  which  a  few  years  before  the  Normans 
had  landed.  It  was  natural  for  a  writer  of  the  times  to 
allude  to  an  event  so  recent;  and  to  make  a  reference  so 
obvious.  And  I  do  not  know  any  person,  to  whom  this 
address  can  with  propriety  be  ascribed,  but  to  Turgot.  He 
was  probably  writing  at  the  very  time  of  this  calamity:  and 
nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  for  him  at  such  a 
season  to  make  this  apostrophe:  which  is  very  much  illus- 
trated by  the  history  of  those  times. 

O  Sea,  o'er-teeming  Dover,  had  thy  flood  had  any 
good  purpose  to  our  country,  it  would  have  risen  be- 
fore Duke  William  with  his  nobles  had  arrived  upon 


APPENDIX  285 

our  coasts:  and  have  overwhelmed  his  army.  This  in 
great  measure  authenticates,  what  is  said  by  Rowley, 
that  this  poem  was  a  version  from  a  Saxon  manuscript: 
and  it  justifies  his  invocation  of  Turgot,  to  whom  he 
was  beholden  for  it. 


INDEX 


'Aella,  The  Tragedie  of,""  133-150,  166, 

236. 

Angell,  Mrs.  Frederick,  208,  217,  222. 
Atterbury,    proprietor    of   Marylebone 

Gardens,  208. 

'Balade  of  Charitie,"  210-213,  218. 
Ballance,  Mrs.,  183,  191,  201,  231. 
Barrett,  William,  42, 68, 71-75,  90, 102, 

104,  152,  217. 

Barton,  Dr.  Cutts,  Dean  of  Bristol,  181. 
Bath,  E.  M.,  261. 
'Battle  of  Hastings,  The?  101-104. 
Beckford,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  161, 

186,  190,  204. 
Bell,  Edward,  236. 
Blake,  William,  249. 
Bristol  Journal,  The,  47,  51,  65,  67. 
'Bristowe  Tragedie,^  113-125. 
Broughton,  Rev.  Mr.,  128. 
Browning,  John,  77- 
Buchanan,  Robert,  250. 
Burgum,  85-91. 
Burton,  Simon  de,  4,  ill. 
Bute,  Earl  of,  159,  170. 

Cade,  Jack,  3. 

Camplin,  Rev.  Mr.,  iSi. 

Canynge,  William,  1-4,  7,  epitaph  of, 

11,13,20,23,35-37,124. 
Gary,  Thomas,  166-167,  182,  204,  225. 
Catcott,  Rev.  Alexander,  127. 


Catcott,  George,  69,  82,  91,  in,  181, 

217,  228. 

Chatterton,  Giles  Malpas,  15. 
Chatterton,  John,  14. 
Chatterton,  Mary  (Sister),  15,  28. 
Chatterton,  Mrs.  (Mother  of  the  Poet), 

15-16,  28-29,  3°>  61,  220,  226,  229, 

235>  *65- 

Chatterton,  Thomas  (Father  of  the 
Poet),  14-15. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  birth,  15;  sent  to 
school,  1 6;  affection  for  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe,  17-19,  22;  disposition  as  a 
boy,  26-29;  in  Colston's  Charity 
School,  30-33,  38 ;  the  Rowley  and 
Canynge  story,  36-37,  54;  study,  40, 
46;  meets  Barrett,  43;  charitableness, 
44;  religion,  47;  first  published  poem, 
47;  humorous  verse,  49;  attack  on 
Joseph  Thomas,  51;  'Elinoure  and 
Juga,"  59,  242;  apprenticed,  61;  on 
'Bristol  Bridge,'  64;  the  Manuscripts, 
72-80,  82-84,  94;  furnishes  Burgum 
a  genealogy,  86-91;  verses  on  'Miss 
Eleanor  Hoyland,'  92;  'The  Parlya- 
mente  of  Spryte^s,^  95-100;  'The 
Battle  of  Hastings,''  101-104,  154; 
'The  Tournament'',  in;  'Bristowe 
Tragedie,''  113-125;  letters  to  Dods- 
ley,  130;  'The  Tragedie  of  Aella,''  133- 
150,  166;  letters  to  Horace  Walpole, 


287 


288 


INDEX 


Chatterton  —  Continued 

152-156;  defense  of  Wilkes,  164-165; 
'Resignation,''  169-170;  Friendship 
for  America,  170;  Satirical  Verses, 
169-172;  narrative  and  love  verses, 
172-174;  The  'Will,'  180-181;  leaves 
Lambert's  employ,  182;  arrives  at 
London,  184;  work  in  London,  193- 
200;  defeat  of  his  friends,  202;  'The 
Revenge,*  206-208;  'Balade  of  Chart- 
tie,''  210-213,  218;  sufferings,  218- 
221;  his  death,  222;  burial,  224;  the 
interest  in  his  work,  227;  publication 
of  the  Rowley  poems,  227;  records 
of  his  life  and  works,  230-238;  Wai- 
pole's  treatment  of,  243;  his  work 
and  influence  on  English  poetry, 
250-258;  memories  of,  259. 

Chaucer,  55,  97,  253. 

Churchill,  168,  169. 

Clayfield,  Michael,  179,  182. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  Si,  156,  161,  249,  254, 
262. 

Colston,  Edward,  30-31,  50. 

Colston's  School,  31,  34,  38,  40-45,  50, 
52-53,  61,  71. 

Cottle,  Joseph,  229,  234. 

Court  and  City,  The,  194,  198. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  255. 

Croft,  Rev.  Sir  Herbert,  230-232. 

Cross,  221-222,  231. 

Cumberland,  George,  233-234. 

Dante,  161. 

Denham,  256. 

Dix,  John,  his  life  of  Chatterton,  232- 

235,  264-266. 

Dodsley,  James,  130-132,  185. 
Dryden,  John,  168,  251,  256. 


Edkins,  Mrs.,  44,  176-177,  233,  235. 
'Elinoure  andjuga,*  59, 77,  242. 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  5. 

Fair,  Paul,  180. 

Fell,  202-203. 

Flower,  John,  180. 

Freeholders'  Magazine,  The,  164-165, 

185,  194,  198. 
Fry,  Dr.,  223,  225,  242. 

George,  the  Third,  158,  188. 

Goethe,  230. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  225-226. 

Goodal's  Book  Shop,  45. 

Gospel  Magazines,  The,  194,  198. 

Graf  ton,  Duke  of,  164,  169. 

Gray,  Thomas,  151-153,  156. 

Hamlet,  146. 

Henry  The  Sixth,  i,  3. 

Herrick,  Robert,  253. 

Hillsborough,  Earl  of,  197. 

Hoyland,  Miss  Eleanor,  verses  on,  92. 

Hugo,  Victor,  161. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  171,  194,  225. 
Junius,  165,  186,  203. 

Kator,  Henry,  166. 

Keats,  John,  101,  104,  249. 

Lambert,  John,  61,  175,  179,  180. 
Lessing,  161. 
Lichfield,  Earl  of,  227. 
London  Magazine,  The,  194. 
London  Evening  Post,  The,  202. 
London  Museum,  The,  194,  198,  202. 
Lydgate,  John,  106. 


INDEX 


289 


Macpherson,  241,  267. 

Margaret,  wife  of  Henry  VI,  3. 

Marlowe,  161. 

Marvell,  Andrew,  255. 

Marylebone,  The,  205. 

Massinger,  161. 

Mease,  Matthew,  166. 

Middlesex  Journal,  The,  178,  185, 194, 

197,  202,  209. 

Milles,  Jeremiah,  236-237. 
Milton,  John,  161. 
Morris,  William,  162. 

Newton,  Dr.  Bishop  of  Bristol,  167. 
North  Briton,  The,  163,  191,  204. 
North,  Lord,  197. 

Parlyamente  of  Sprytes,  The,  95-100. 

Phillips,  Richard,  14,  17. 

Phillips,     Thomas,     friendship     with 

Chatterton,  34-35,  58,  174. 
Political  Register,  The,  194,  198. 
Pope,  Alexander,  168,  257. 
Public  Advertiser,  The,  202. 

Reade,  Charles,  32,  247. 
'Resignation,''  169,  170,  198. 
'Revenge,  The,"  206-208. 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  250,  268. 
Rowley,   Thomas,   in    Bristol,   7,    13, 
35-37,79- 


Schiller,  145, 161. 
Shakespeare,  144,  241. 
Sharpe,  Lancelot,  227. 
Shelley,  161,  178,  249. 
Skeats,  W.  W.,  96, 109. 
Southey,  Robert,  229,  264. 
Spenser,  55,  104. 

St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  4,  7,  13, 14,  22,  68. 
Stockwell,  Mrs.,  235. 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  95,   105-113,  146, 
150,  161,  162. 

Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  264-265. 

Tennyson,  250-253. 

Thistlethwaite,  James,  58. 

Thomas,  Joseph,  50. 

Thomson,  257. 

'Tournament,  The,''  III. 

Town  and  Country  Magazine,  178,  185, 

194, 198,  209,  213,  218,  225. 
Trelawney,  'Records?  179. 

Wales,  Dowager  Princess  of,  164,  197. 
Walpole,  Horace,   151-156,   195,  226, 

243-245,  248-249,  261. 
Watson,  William,  162. 
Whitman,  Walt.,  162. 
Wilkes,  John,  159-160,  163,  186,  202. 
Wilson,  Prof.,  236,  243,  245. 
Wordsworth,  250. 

Young,  Sarah  (Mrs.  Chatterton),  15, 16. 


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